Dial M for Meat Loaf (6 page)

8

Sunday mornings at the Runbecks had followed a certain pattern over the past few years. Because Cora’s sight had been failing due to cataracts on both eyes, anything that required extended reading had become Kirby’s responsibility.

Cora kicked herself now about the surgery. If she’d only known it would be that easy, she would have done it years ago. But all her women friends had warned her to stay as far away from the doctor’s office as possible. They told her horror story after horror story about cataract operations gone bad. Unleashed laser beams cutting off the tips of patients’ noses. Eyeballs falling out. Things they’d read in the
National Inquisitor
, stories sandwiched in between articles on babies born with no heads and aliens visiting the Vatican. Cora never read the magazine herself, but she liked to know what was happening in the world. As a result of her friends’ warnings, her life had become more and more restricted. And the Sunday morning
Times Register
was one of the casualties.

After trudging out to the mailbox to retrieve the extra-large Minneapolis paper, Kirby and Cora would sit at the kitchen table. Over pancakes and bacon, Kirby would read the highlights. First came the headlines on the front page. Anything that struck Kirby’s fancy would be read in its entirety. If something struck Cora’s interest and not Kirby’s, he would grumble his way through the article, paraphrasing and skipping sections so they could move on to something he thought was more important. Cora hated him for his selfishness. There was no other word for it. She’d convinced herself that she loved him, but in the past few days she’d realized she never had.

The funeral had been a blur, but thankfully, her women friends had taken care of everything. After the service at First Lutheran, they’d brought food over to the house and encouraged her to eat, amazed that such a skinny little lady could pack away so much fried chicken. Cora had tried to work up some genuine tears for the graveside service, but all she really felt was regret. Regret at a life spent with a man she didn’t even like. Secretly, she’d dreamed for years of a long widowhood. She would lie in bed at night listening to Kirby snore, and pray that he would go to his reward before she did. Even a year’s peace and quiet would seem heaven-sent.

It was hard to talk about Kirby now without people getting suspicious. Everyone expected Cora to be in mourning, to cry and moan about how much she missed him. The truth was, she hardly knew he was gone. He had never really talked all that much. Oh, he did the grocery shopping and fixed little things around the house when they needed it, but he’d never been much company. That’s what Cora’s cat, Winthrop, was for. She doted on him, which made Kirby mad. Winthrop was a little Russian blue, with a sweet disposition and an even sweeter face. Most of the time, Kirby was either out in the garage working on one of his projects or sitting in front of the TV with a beer in his hand. Cora thought Kirby was a cold-blooded reptile. Now that she could see again, being on her own was nothing short of bliss.

Cora had met Kirby when she was seventeen. Her mother had been dead for many years by then. Cora had lived with her father and four younger siblings on a farm in southern Minnesota. For all practical purposes, she was a mother to her brothers and sisters, and a servant to her father. When the Lutheran church in town got knocked flat by a tornado, several young men came down from the Cities to help rebuild it. The pastor had asked Cora’s father if he had a spare room where one of the young men could stay. Kirby moved in the following weekend.

It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, though Cora was definitely attracted to him. Kirby was young and strong, and back then, she figured his silence meant that he was deep. It took her many years to discover that she’d mistaken dull for deep, but by then they were married and living in Rose Hill. Fact was, when she was seventeen, she was sick to death of being her father’s indentured slave, and Kirby offered a way out. Only problem was, she realized too late that she’d simply given up one form of slavery for another. At least with her dad, she didn’t have to sleep with him. Cora suspected that Kirby wasn’t very good in the lovemaking department. They’d never had kids. Cora wanted to find out what the problem was, but Kirby refused to go to a doctor. So, they remained childless, a source of great sadness for her.

When it came to life in general, Cora’s expectations had never been high. Maybe that had been her problem all along.

It still bothered her that Kirby had talked about divorce before he died. The nerve of a man like him wanting to divorce a woman like her. If anyone was going to demand a divorce, she should have done it. When it came to marriage, she always felt that men got the better end of the deal. All she knew was that she would never tell a living soul what he’d said. What would her women friends think? Cora assumed the old goat had a roll in the hay every now and then with that awful Mabel Bjornstaad. Mabel was the town whore. Then again, it was fine with Cora, especially if it kept him away from her. But divorce?

Cora was four years younger than Kirby. A spring chicken by some standards. Sure, she had hearing problems, and the cataracts, but she could still enjoy life. She walked a mile or two every day. Loved to garden. Maybe, down deep in her soul, she did understand what Kirby was talking about the day he died. Wanting some passion in his life, needing to kick up his heels a little before the end. Now that Kirby was gone, maybe she should take a cruise. Except, she’d scrutinized the bankbook the other day. Kirby’s social security would come to her until she died, but there wasn’t much extra money to pursue the good life. After years of scrimping and saving, shouldn’t there be some reward?

“Divorce,”she said, spitting the word out like it was a piece of gristle. “Ridiculous.” She was sitting on the living room couch, the cat perched behind her, the Sunday Minneapolis
Times Register
resting on her lap, the television blissfully off.

For the second wonderful weekend in a row, Cora could start with the food section instead of the front page. She felt guilty for not feeling more guilty. Kirby was gone and someone should be sad.

“Mabel can handle that,” she mumbled, snapping the food section out in front of her.

Cora had to squint with her right eye through her bifocals to see the small print, but it felt liberating not to have to rely on someone else to read to her anymore. Kirby never had time for the recipes. It was one of the small ways in which he liked to lord it over her. What a pathetic old man. She stopped for a moment and tried to think of his good qualities. Under the circumstances, it seemed the Christian thing to do. Acrimony wasn’t God’s way. After a couple of minutes, she gave up, shrugged her shoulders, and went back to the paper.

“Look at this,” she whispered to Winthrop, finding an announcement in bold print about a statewide recipe contest.

!!!! RECIPE CONTEST !!!!

Do you love meat loaf as much as the editors at the
Times Register
? Everyone in Minnesota is invited to send a favorite meat loaf recipe to the paper. New or old, it doesn’t matter. A first, second and third prize will be awarded on September 15. Winners will spend a weekend at the historic Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul. They will be wined and dined at some of the finest restaurants in the Twin Cities, and will be featured with their winning creations on WTWN’s
Good Morning with Bailey
Brown
. Only one week is left, so make sure you get your recipes to us soon. Submissions must be postmarked by Friday, August 26.

The gears in Cora’s mind started to spin. “I’ve got the best meat loaf recipe this side of paradise,” she said, growing increasingly excited. This was just what she’d been looking for. A free way to enjoy life. A trip to the Cities, a couple of nights at a fabulous hotel, great food, and fame and fortune on that morning TV show. Her women friends would die of envy.

“This was made to order!” she declared, rising from the couch and walking into the kitchen.

Winthrop followed.

After pouring herself another cup of coffee, she opened one of the top cupboard doors. All she had to do was retrieve her old, wooden recipe box with the duck decals on the front, find the recipe for which she’d won a blue ribbon at the county fair when she was sixteen, and send it off in the morning mail. She had no doubt that she’d win first prize.

But . . . the recipe box wasn’t in the cupboard. “It’s always been
right there
,” she said out loud, her anger building. What had that old man done with it? She hadn’t used it in several years, but that didn’t mean Kirby had the right to move it or—horrors—throw it away. Her mother had given it to her on her eighth birthday!

“There was always room for your useless junk, but something as important to me as my recipe box—” It hurt so bad, she couldn’t even finish the sentence. Without the box, she knew she wouldn’t get the recipe right. She’d forget something. Or she’d get the measurements wrong. If she was going to win that contest, she had to find that box.

Even from his grave, Kirby was reaching out to thwart her.

Cora felt like cussing up a storm. If she’d been a weaker woman, she might have let fly, but Cora wasn’t raised to use that kind of language. That was for tramps like Mabel Bjornstaad. Besides, Winthrop had never seen her behave like that and she didn’t want to upset him. He was such a quiet, sensitive little fellow, sitting on the kitchen counter and licking the edge of a honey jar.

Opening all the cupboard doors, Cora stepped back and peered over the top of her bifocals. Her heart leapt inside her chest when she spied it way up on the top shelf.

The stepladder had been in the garage when the bomb went off, but a kitchen chair would do just fine. In a moment, the box had been plucked from its resting place and Cora was sitting at the kitchen table, staring for the first time in years at the decals on the front. Her mother had bought the box in the thirties at the local five-and-dime. She’d placed the duck decals on it herself. Cora couldn’t work up much emotion about Kirby’s death, but she still teared when she thought of her mom. Cora had used the wooden box all during high school. Some of the recipes inside came from her mother, some from her grandmother, some from her teachers, and some Cora had copied out of magazines. But the meat loaf recipe was all her own.

Opening the cover, Cora gazed at a yellowed piece of paper she’d stuck to the inside a thousand years ago. It said, simply: Cora Pauline Anderson. Rooms 3 & 5, Foods, Mrs. Hayes and Miss Brown.

Flipping through the cards, she found the meat loaf recipe almost immediately. But she couldn’t stop there. She was too intrigued by her walk down memory lane. Philadelphia Dip for Chips. Lefse. Ice Box Cookies. Her grandmother’s famous Nuts Cookies, and Floating Island. A favorite recipe for Angel Pie, and Beet Pickles. Her mother’s favorite fish chowder, buttery and thick with potatoes and fresh corn off the cob. Everything came back to her with the patina of childhood attached— that innocent time before her mother had died.

At the back of the box, Cora found something she hadn’t anticipated. It was a bankbook, and not one she recognized. A folded sheet of typing paper was attached to it with a paper clip. She figured it must be one that had expired years ago, but just to make sure, she opened it.

“Dear God,” she said, her hand rising to cover her mouth. She stared at the numbers in utter disbelief. The bankbook was for a savings account that had been taken out in the name of Kirby Runbeck less then three months ago. Two deposits were recorded. The starting deposit was fifty thousand dollars. The second deposit had been made four days before he died. Another fifty thousand dollars.

“What on earth?” How had Kirby gotten his hands on that kind of money? And then it struck her. That’s why he wanted a divorce. The little worm was planning to take the money and run away with that hussy, Mabel Bjornstaad. Sharing his good fortune with his wife wasn’t part of the plan.

Thank the Good Lord there was justice in this world. The money would come to her now. “We’re rich!” cried Cora, picking up Winthrop and hugging him to her chest. The cat seemed unimpressed. He wanted to get back to the honey jar.

After letting him go, she stared at the balance for a few more seconds. Only then did she notice a withdrawal at the bottom. Two days before his death, Kirby had withdrawn the entire hundred thousand dollars and closed the account.

“You bastard!” she thundered, pounding her fist on the table and causing the coffee cup to jump.

But what had happened to the money? If it wasn’t in the bank, it had to be somewhere. Oh no, Cora thought. Her heart nearly stopped. Had it been in his truck? Or the garage? She closed her eyes and tried to think it through. Where would a secretive, naturally suspicious, not terribly intelligent man like Kirby hide a small fortune? Cora felt certain the place he’d pick would be absolutely secure. The truck and the garage didn’t fit that criteria. No, it had to be somewhere else.

Pulling off the piece of typing paper clipped to the back of the bankbook, she unfolded it.

“What’s this?” she muttered, looking at the lines her husband had drawn on the page. It was a map. “Sixteen paces due north of the Devil’s Tree. East four paces. South twenty-two paces.” What on earth was the Devil’s Tree? Kirby had obviously hidden something there because he’d used an X to mark the spot.

“You greedy old pirate,” she whispered. “That’s where the money is.”

It had been Kirby’s tragic fate to die before he could spend his fortune.

“What a dirty shame,” said Cora, an evil smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

9

Sophie had a feeling Bram wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that she’d decided to accompany him on the drive up to Grand Rapids for his Monday afternoon radio show. For Bram it was a business trip. He wanted to leave early Monday morning, do the show in the afternoon, and be home for a late dinner on Monday night. Sophie convinced him to leave Sunday afternoon and combine the work with a little R and R, saying it would be good for them both.

Just over a year ago, Sophie’s cousin Sulo had bought a summer cabin on Pokegama Lake. Since Sulo was forever telling her that she should come up and spend the weekend, Sophie insisted that this was the perfect opportunity. They could take out the houseboat. Enjoy a little twilight ride around the lake.

“You mean spend the evening swatting mosquitoes,” Bram grunted. He wasn’t known for his love of the great outdoors.

They’d just passed the town of Garrison on their way around the northern part of Lake Mille Lacs.

“While you do your live broadcast from the Itasca county fair,” said Sophie, turning off the music they’d been listening to, “I’ll spend the time scouting out the local cafes for possible review.” Just because that wasn’t the real reason she wanted to visit Grand Rapids didn’t stop her from using it as a ruse.

“You’re planning to make me eat some godawful small-town cafe food, aren’t you?” muttered Bram, sulking. “Breaded pork chops. Chopped iceberg lettuce with that red, sickly sweet French dressing. Little Jell-O salads covered in Cool Whip. Canned green beans. And everything, absolutely everything else covered in cheese or deep fried.” He shivered at the thought.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a snob?”

“Frequently. And I accept the title . . . with my usual grace. I repeat, I don’t like eating in greasy spoons.”

“You had a greasy grilled cheese last Thursday, before your show.”

“I did not. I had a salad.”

“You never eat salads for lunch.”

“I am a man of many surprises.”

“But you said the sandwich gave you indigestion. That’s why you were popping Tums. And hey, don’t change the subject. Why do you assume a small-town cafe would be a greasy spoon? Maybe they have someone in the kitchen who’s an artist, a culinary wizard. You love good home cooking.”

“Only when it’s served by a restaurant with at least two stars.”

She threw up her hands in disgust. The fact was, she probably wouldn’t have time to visit the cafes anyway. She intended to spend as much of the afternoon as possible digging up information on Morgan Walters, the man who was the spitting image of John Washburn— right down to his tattoo.

Sophie had failed to fill Bram in about that little detail because she knew he’d think she was either A, wasting her time, or B, meddling. But Bram didn’t have the same history with Morgan as she did, so there was no way he could truly understand her fascination. Under the circumstances, a little plausible misdirection was the better part of discretion.

Just after seven, Bram pulled his Jeep into the dirt drive next to Sulo’s cabin. “Not exactly the Ritz,” he said, staring at the dilapidated log structure. Pokegama Lake spread out blue and hazy behind it.

“Sulo said he’s been working on it little by little. He figures he’ll have it in tip-top shape by next summer.”

“Why didn’t we wait until then to visit?”

Sophie could see that the dock was deep in a patch of weeds. The houseboat, the one Sulo had been raving about, looked as upscale as the cabin. “He said he’d leave the key above the door.”

“Great,” said Bram, pushing out of the front seat. “No burglar would ever think of looking there.”

Lugging two disgracefully heavy overnight bags across a patch of dead grass, Bram waited for Sophie to unlock the front door. Once they were inside, he dropped the bags with a thunk. “Good thing your cousin wasn’t planning to spend the night with us. Somebody would be sleeping on the floor.”

Against the far wall sat two rusted metal bunk beds with sagging mattresses. That was the extent of the sleeping accommodations.

“I don’t understand it,” said Sophie. “Sulo’s told me so many times how incredibly comfortable the place was.”

“This from the same man who nearly killed me in his hand-built sauna. Sophie, if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: hyperbole is dangerous. It can kill.”

They both stood for a few moments examining the dingy, claustrophobic interior.

“Hey,” said Sophie, moving closer to her husband. “What’s that scratching noise?”

“A mouse. Or, with our luck, a skunk.”

Another few seconds passed.

“Call the Sawmill Inn,” said Sophie, turning on her heel and marching out the door.

“I’m on it.”

Later that evening, while Bram was taking a shower, Sophie looked up Morgan Walters’s name in the Grand Rapids phone book, the one the motel conveniently provided. No Walters was listed. Morgan and his wife would probably be in their late sixties now—if they were still alive, and if they’d stayed in the area. Two big ifs. That’s when Sophie remembered Dan and Cathy Greenberg. The Greenbergs had lived next to Sophie’s grandparents all those years ago. They bought their eggs from the Walterses, too. They’d been in their twenties when Sophie knew them, so maybe they had some information on what happened to the Walterses.

Scanning down the G’s, Sophie found a Daniel Greenberg on First Avenue North East. As Bram scrubbed away, Sophie punched in the number. Someone picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice.

“Mr. Greenberg?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Sophie Greenway. I used to be Sophie Tahtinen. You used to live next to my grandparents.”

“Of course I remember you, Sophie,” Mr. Greenberg said warmly. He’d spent his life as a high school athletic coach in Coleraine. “You were just a child the last time I saw you. Gee, that must have been—”

“A long time ago,” said Sophie, not wanting to get into the age thing. “I’m calling because I’m hoping you can help me with a question. Do you remember Morgan Walters and his wife? They lived out near Trout Lake.”

“Sure, I used to go biking with Morgan. Nice guy.”

“Do you know if he and his wife are still living around here?”

Now he hesitated. “I guess you didn’t hear. Laura died four or five years after they were married.”

“Died? How?”

“Suicide. I don’t remember much about it, but shortly after it happened, Morgan took off. Far as I know, nobody’s seen him since. If you’re interested, you might try talking to Laura’s sister, Dotty Mulloy. She lives out on Mishawaka Road. I’m sure her name’s in the book.”

Sophie could hear Bram’s shower winding down. She could tell because he’d reached the next to the last chorus of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” “Thanks, Mr. Greenberg.”

“I hope you find the information you’re looking for.”

“Me, too.”

As soon as she’d hung up, she pulled the phone book in front of her again and scanned the M’s for Dotty Mulloy. There it was: Ben and Dotty Mulloy, 1748 Mishawaka Rd. She punched in the number. The line had just flipped over to an answering machine when a woman’s voice answered. “Mulloys.”

“Hi, is this Dotty?”

“Yes, it is.”

“My name’s Sophie Greenway. I’m the food editor for the
Times Register
in Minneapolis. My husband is Bram Baldric.” She thought putting a little information up front might be a good ploy to get the woman’s attention.

“Say, I’ve heard of Mr. Baldric. He’s the one with that talk radio show.”

“That’s right. We’re in town because Bram is doing his show live from the fair grounds tomorrow afternoon.”

“I was over at the fair today. He’ll get a great crowd.”

Sophie felt pretty confident she had her. “I was wondering if I could come over to your house tomorrow afternoon. I was hoping to talk to you while I was in town.”

“Me? Why?”

Sophie was afraid that if she said too much, Dotty might refuse. “I’d rather explain it to you in person.”

For a few seconds, Dotty didn’t speak. “Well,” she said, finally, “I guess that would be okay.”

Sophie could hear the water in the shower stop. The curtain was yanked back. “What time is good for you?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment at noon. How does two sound?”

“I’ll be there. And thanks, Dotty.”