Glare Ice (15 page)

John Klaus pushed his chair back and stood. Claire sat for a moment, trying to think of what else she could ask that would get her to understand Stephanie a little better.

“Why would she protect this man?” she asked him.

“Why are women the way they are.”

T
HE
next morning Stephanie woke without the pounding in her head. She stood up carefully, and the world didn’t rush in on her. She shuffled to the bathroom and peed and washed her face and hands. The warm water on her face felt good. Then she did the bravest act of all—she looked in the mirror.

She had learned that she always looked the worst about four days after the beating. What a thing to know. And sure enough, she looked like some kind of nightmare creature. The purple around her eyes had turned nearly black in its bruising. Her eyes were still bloodshot. Her nose was disformed and puffy.

The only feature on her face that had escaped the battering were her lips. They were full and kissable. She smiled. Hadn’t lost any teeth this round either. She had lost three in previous beatings. She hated losing her teeth. But with her health coverage at W.A.G., she was able to have new caps put on all of them.

She knew that tomorrow she would look a little better than today. Her eyesight was close to normal again. She had checked herself on the chart in her room. But she was faking it for the doctors so they wouldn’t send her home until she was ready.

Yesterday she had walked down to the front door and back so that she would know her way when the time came. Her clothes were in a bag in the bottom of her closet. Last night she had washed the blood off her Green Bay Packers jacket and laid it over the radiator to dry.

She had called Sven last night, and he said he would come and get her whenever she wanted. Just say the word, he told her. He didn’t have much to do and so often was looking for ways of keeping busy. She knew it made him feel important that she had called on him for help.

He had hesitantly asked her how she looked.

“Like I got run over by a bulldozer.”

“That bad?”

“I think so.”

“Who did this to you, Stephanie? You gotta let the police know so they can arrest the guy. I’ll testify or whatever I need to do.”

Stephanie thanked him, but didn’t say much more. She told him she’d call him in the next day or two. After she hung up, she looked out the window and thought about being able to walk down the street and not worry about running into Jack. If he were put away, she could have her life back.

Once again, she was seriously considering telling that woman deputy who had done this to her. Deputy Watkins seemed very reliable, like she might understand what was going on with her. She felt so ashamed of herself for letting a man treat her this way and then going back for more. Rather than talk about it, sometimes it seemed easier to just run away again. But she was starting to realize that it would never end.

She worried that wherever she went, he would find her.

An aide walked in with breakfast. The food at St. Catherine’s was as bad as it was in most hospitals, but she was forcing herself to eat it. She needed to get stronger.

Stephanie sat up in a chair, and the aide pushed over the tray on a rolling table.

“Good sign, you sitting up today.”

Stephanie didn’t say much. She didn’t want to get to know these people who were seeing her at her worst. What they must think of her! If she talked to them, they might give her a piece of their mind, and she didn’t want anything to do with that.

Stephanie studied the tray—no surprises—Raisin Bran with 2 percent milk, toast, coffee, and juice. It actually looked pretty good.

Just as she was about to take her first bite, someone loomed in her doorway.

“Good to see you up,” Deputy Watkins said and walked into the room.

Stephanie pushed her tray away. It would keep. The deputy looked uncomfortable and was still all bundled up with her outdoor clothes on, her jacket zipped way up.

“Is it okay if I close the door?” she asked Stephanie.

Stephanie nodded, surprised at the request.

Watkins closed the door and then unzipped her jacket. A little tawny red head popped out with two bright eyes. The dog let out a yelp that tore her heart open.

Snooper.

The deputy had brought Snooper to visit.

“Oh, baby boy,” Stephanie said and reached out her arms for the dog.

Watkins finished unzipping her jacket and then plopped the small dog in his owner’s lap.

He stood on her knees and tried to lick her face. She laughed and tried to resist him, not wanting him to jar her nose. After a couple of good licks, he started to settle down.

She petted him and petted him, not believing she was holding him.

“Thank you,” she said to Watkins.

“I thought you might want to see him. I know I told you he was okay, but I thought you’d like to see for yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Stephanie didn’t know what to say. She knew she was going to cry, but she didn’t want to cry in front of this woman she hardly knew. She felt so vulnerable. Snooper was kind of the only family she had, the only creature that cared about her. He had curled into her lap and made himself right at home. How hard it would be to let him go again.

“Do you want me to step out for a moment?”

“Could you?”

The deputy went out and shut the door behind her.

Stephanie bent her head over and let her blond hair fall on the small dog. Then she cried like she hadn’t cried in many years. What would become of her, and how would she protect Snooper from Jack? As the dog licked her hand, she cried harder and felt like something was being torn inside of her. The affection of this small animal ripped her up like the beatings never had.

Stephanie pulled herself together. She stood up, holding the dog tightly, and opened the door. The deputy was standing right outside her door.

Stephanie didn’t care if the nurses saw. The rule against dogs in the hospital was stupid. They were cleaner than most people and certainly wouldn’t bring in any diseases that were catching to humans.

“Come on back in. I’m okay now. Thank you for bringing Snooper. It just shook me up.”

“You’ve been through a lot. I understand.”

Stephanie didn’t want to argue about that.

“When are you getting out?” Watkins asked.

“They are going to let me go in another two days, I think.

They just want my eyesight to be back good enough so I can drive. I think they’re keeping me in longer since I have no one at home to take care of me.”

“Makes sense.”

The deputy perched on the edge of the bed, and Stephanie sat back down in the high-backed chair. It was the only chair in the room.

“I went and saw your brother yesterday. He’s very concerned about you.”

The deputy had talked to her brother. Stephanie was sure he was as charming as he could be. He’d done so well for himself. Big house, new wife. She hated him. Who knows what he had told the deputy? “I bet.”

“Do you have anything more to tell me about what happened to you on Thanksgiving?” Watkins asked.

“I really don’t. It’s all a blur. I’ve been working on it.”

“But Stephanie, you have to know who did this to you.”

She wanted to be left alone. “Why do you say that?”

“Because this isn’t the first time, is it?”

Stephanie didn’t know how to answer her. She didn’t want to lie to this woman who had been kind to her.

“I’d like to talk to you about who has done this to you,” Claire continued. “I think I can help you. I don’t want you to go back home and not be safe.”

“I’ll be okay. I might go stay with friends or my brother.”

The deputy bought it. “Oh, good. I’m glad to hear that.”

Stephanie nodded.

“Do you know what you were beaten with?” the deputy asked her.

Stephanie tried to remember what one of the nurses had told her. “A bottle. Some kind of glass bottle.”

“Are you sure that’s all you know?” The woman deputy was looking at her intently.

Stephanie shook her head.

The deputy stood up and walked over to her. She was standing too close. It made Stephanie feel very uncomfortable. Then the deputy said, “Your brother knew that it was a champagne bottle. How would he know?”

“Maybe someone else told him. One of the nurses.”

The deputy turned away and walked toward the door. Then she asked quietly, “Stephanie, has he ever hurt you?”

“My brother loves me.”

“I can’t protect you if you won’t tell me what’s going on. I need you to tell me if your brother had anything to do with this.”

“My brother would never hurt me. I’ll keep trying to remember.”

“Stephanie, I’ll give you as much time as you need, but I’m not sure whoever’s after you will show you the same courtesy.”

Claire sat in her front room, sewing small stitches in cotton fabric. The quilt covered her lap and legs, a hoop pulled tight over a small section of the border. The room was quiet; the night very still. The accumulated snow muffled any noises from the street, but the town, she was sure, had gone to sleep.

Rich had called a while ago, and they had exchanged news of the day. He had a shoulder that was acting up. He had wished she were there to massage it for him. He was working on a small table and chair set for Meg for Christmas. Meg was upstairs sleeping after finishing all her homework. Claire had checked it over.

It was nearly ten-thirty. She wouldn’t stay up much longer, but she wanted to get a bit more of the border done.

Somehow she had managed to keep the quilt a secret from Meg. She only worked on it at night when Meg went to sleep. But she was steady at it, working every night for an hour or two.

She would be sorry when the piece was finished. Her fingers were pricked so often they bled, but she found the act of quilting immensely soothing. She could sew and think and not feel wasteful of her time.

Tonight, however, nothing seemed to calm her. She felt twitchy from her inability to find out what had happened to Stephanie Klaus. Someone had to know who was abusing her. She just had to find them. She was getting a weird feeling about John Klaus. Yet he seemed to be the good brother.

Or she had to get Stephanie to talk to her about it. Claire felt like she had made some progress today at the hospital, even if Stephanie had moved away from telling her anything at the end of their conversation. It made her crazy to think about Stephanie: a woman nearly killed who won’t tell who was responsible.

Claire came to the end of the thread that was in her needle and made a small knot, then pulled it under the fabric. It held, hidden and secure, tucked into the batting. She threaded her needle again.

What was nice about sewing these small even stitches was that at the end of an hour there were more of them, they added up, and eventually the quilt was done.

In her job, sometimes cases were never finished. Cold cases hung around her neck like so much weight. She did not want Buck’s or Stephanie’s to be one of them.

Letting her hands fall still, Claire stared out the window. Deep winter. Christmas would be upon them shortly. She saw her own white face reflected in the glass glare over layers of frost.

She remembered a girlfriend of hers from high school looking in the mirror at her house. Tanya. Liquid brown hair down her back. A bruise on her arm. When Claire asked how it had happened, Tanya had rubbed at the mark, then said with a laugh that her boyfriend didn’t know his own strength, that he got jealous. She had worn the mark like a badge of their attachment. “He’s so good to me afterward. He tells me he loves me all the time.”

At that time, Claire hadn’t dated anyone seriously and was surprised at the level of sacrifice a woman might have to endure to be loved. In the way that tragedy can seem romantic when one is young, the bruise seemed like an emblem of love.

She knew better now.

Claire hoped that she could save Stephanie.

C
LAIRE
sat and stared at the top of her desk. Most of it was covered with forms, files, and junk, but there was a clear space between her coffee mug and her Rolodex, and she stared at the bare Formica surface. She was good and stuck.

It was just then that Chief Deputy Sheriff Swanson stopped by. He perched on the edge of her desk, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him. She worried that it might tip, but he seemed to be able to maneuver his bulk around quite well.

“Owens?” he asked. He could be a man of few words. He followed the work of his deputies quite closely, keeping the sheriff filled in on anything important.

“I hate to tell you we’re reaching a dead end. Just got the report from WDI that the fingerprint on Buck Owen’s glasses matched the bartender’s. And we know how that happened. So that lead is gone.”

“I can’t believe no one in the bar saw anything.”

Claire shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Trent and I tracked down everyone, and they don’t remember anyone being with him.”

“The car?”

“It was pretty well washed out by the lake water.”

Stewy didn’t say anything for a moment, seeming to chew over what had been said. “So what’s next?”

“I still think it’s tied into Stephanie Klaus’s beating. It’s just too much of a coincidence that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, and he gets killed and she nearly does.” “So?”

“She hasn’t given me anything. I’m trying to wait her out. I think she is coming to trust me.”

“Bring her down to the station?”

“I don’t think so. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Aiding and abetting.”

“I don’t think that covers conveniently not remembering. She’s going to be in the hospital for another day, and I’ve got one more idea.”

What had her uncle, a former cop, told her to do when you hit this dry spot? Look through the cracks, he had always said. Whatever the hell that meant. Probably like reading between the lines in a letter. “What?”

“The brother’s wife. Somehow I just think that Stephanie might be apt to talk to another woman. She doesn’t have any friends to speak of. I don’t think she and her mom get along that great, but she and her brother have always been close. I thought I would go and try to talk to his new wife. Maybe Stephanie has confided in her.”

“Any hunches?”

“Not really. The brother might know something he’s not telling. It’s hard to say. Stephanie came from one weird family. Then there is Tom Jackson, the cop from Eau Claire. I hate to say it of one of our own, but a lot of cops are abusive.”

Swanson grunted and rubbed his chin. “You got work to do. We haven’t had many murders in this county, but we’ve solved every one of them. Thanks to you.” He pushed off the desk and walked away.

Claire knew the record. Before she moved down here, there hadn’t been a murder in Pepin County for over twenty years.

She was sliding her chair back when Scott walked up to her. He stood in front of her and grinned. She couldn’t help but smile back. Nice to have a happy soul around the office.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey to you too,” she answered.

“Talked to Billy. He checked out Jackson. Actually called the guy up.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I wanted him to do.”

“Well, whatever. He did it. Jackson claims he hasn’t seen Stephanie in many a year. Billy said he didn’t sound particularly interested even. Just said the marriage didn’t work out.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“He’s well thought of in the department. Kind of a loner. Does his job. Dependable.”

“What about his temper?”

Scott paused, then said, “One guy I talked to said that he’d been known to take off on a perp.”

Claire nodded.

“That happens,” Scott pointed out.

“Yeah, too often.” Claire grabbed her jacket.

“Where you off to?” Scott asked. “A little early for home.”

“I wish. I’m going to take care of an evil caretaker.”

“Fun.”

This was going to be the hard part. The deputy had explained on the phone that possession was indeed nine-tenths of the law. That it would be easier if Mrs. Tabor could try to get the pin back from Lily—steal it back if necessary—before they talked to her. Then they wouldn’t have to fight over that.

Lily had the brooch on again today, and it was displayed on her sweater, which she was still wearing. Mrs. Tabor had snuck down the hallway and turned up the heat a couple degrees. Lily was always fussing about how cold Mrs. Tabor kept the house, but she didn’t need to pay the heating bills. However, it would be worth a few extra kilowatts to get her pin back.

Lily was in the kitchen cooking, which was warm work anyway. She was making meatloaf, one of Mrs. Tabor’s favorite dishes. Lily didn’t make it the way Mrs. Tabor used to, but it was good enough. Mrs. Tabor always liked to put a little horseradish in the ketchup she smeared over the top of the loaf. It gave it a little spark and a bit of color too. But Lily’s meatloaf held together better than Mrs. Tabor’s ever had. She guessed it was the egg for binding that did it.

“That smells good,” Mrs. Tabor commented as Lily put it in the oven.

“Doesn’t even smell yet. You must be smelling the oven heating up. Maybe something dripped in there. You better clean the oven one of these days. That’s not my job.”

“I know. My daughter promised she’d do it next time she came.”

Her daughter always promised everything, but she was just too busy to do half the things that needed doing around the house. Sometimes it hurt Mrs. Tabor terribly to see the house fall down around her; other days she didn’t mind. They were just getting old together, she figured.

Then Lily did what Mrs. Tabor had been waiting for—she took off her sweater with the pin on it.

Mrs. Tabor didn’t look at it. She turned her back in fact and shuffled over to the sink and started fussing around with the dishes. Lily hated when she tried to help. Said she made more of a mess than anything. It was time for Mrs. Tabor to take her nap and Lily to watch her talk shows on TV. Mrs. Tabor had tried to watch them once or twice, but she found it much more stimulating to take a nap.

“You go on now.” Lily shooed her away.

Mrs. Tabor walked away from the sink, and Lily took her place. This was her chance. She walked over to the sweater and undid the clasp. It took her a few moments, because her hands were shaking, but the water kept running in the sink. Then the clasp came loose and the pin was in her hand. She set the sweater on the back of the kitchen chair and walked down the hall without looking back.

She knew just where she was going to hide it. Where Lily would never think of looking—in her Bible. Lily was a confirmed atheist. This fact alone should have warned Mrs. Tabor that the woman was not to be trusted. Bad enough not to believe in God, but worse to go around talking about it. She figured that’s what confirmed meant. Maybe like confirmation classes she attended in her Lutheran church. Committed to talking about it.

Mrs. Tabor opened her drawer and took out the Bible. The pin made a bump in the pages, but it just looked like she was reading it. Mrs. Tabor put it back in the drawer and lay down on top of the covers on her bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she would rest and pretend. The deputy said she would come right at the end of her shift, close to five o’clock. Lily left by six.

But Mrs. Tabor did sleep, and she dreamed the devil was wearing her pin. Then he grabbed her arm and yelled her name, and she woke up and found Lily next to her bed.

“What did you do with it, you old hag?”

Mrs. Tabor thought she might have preferred her dream to be real. Lily looked like a witch incarnate, her hair hanging over her shoulder, her eyes dark circles of anger.

“Take what?” she asked, trying to pretend she didn’t know anything.

Then Lily shook her. “I know what you’re up to. You give me things to keep me here, and then you take them away. I won’t let you get away with that.”

Mrs. Tabor felt sick. The shaking had to stop. She struck out at Lily.

The doorbell rang.

Lily let go of her, and Mrs. Tabor reached out for her glasses, but Lily grabbed them away. “You stay here. Ill take care of whoever it is.”

Then Mrs. Tabor prayed. She had been a good Lutheran all her life. She hardly ever asked for anything. She had prayed for Herbert when he was sick, but knew it wouldn’t do much good. The cancer had him in its jaws. He was a goner before she had thought to pray. But this time she thought God might hear her.

Lily talked loud, and Mrs. Tabor heard her say that she was lying down, didn’t feel good, couldn’t see anyone. Then she heard someone walk in and Lily protesting.

“Mrs. Tabor, I’m sorry to hear you’re not feeling well.” Deputy Watkins was there in the doorway of her room.

“Well, I’d feel a mite better if Lily wouldn’t have shaken me so hard.” Mrs. Tabor smoothed back her hair. “I need my glasses, Lily.”

Lily handed them over. “I didn’t know she was coming over again. You didn’t say anything. I didn’t want her to bother you.”

Mrs. Tabor took her time. She had wanted to do this for a long while. She sat up straight on the edge of her bed and put her glasses on. Then she stood up and looked Lily in the face.

“No bother, Lily. I just wanted her here when I told you that you are fired.”

Claire was standing right behind Lily and couldn’t see her face. First Lily swore. She called Mrs. Tabor a bitch. Then she moved toward Mrs. Tabor. Claire was glad she had positioned herself where she had. Claire stepped in and wrapped an arm around Lily’s shoulders from behind, pinning her arms down.

Mrs. Tabor’s hands went up to her face. Claire thought how instinctive that move was to protect our eyes, the one part of our body that did not repair itself as well as the rest. Mrs. Tabor cowered.

Lily struggled in Claire’s grasp, and then she collapsed against her. “You stupid old woman,” she yelled. “Now no one will take care of you.”

Mrs. Tabor sat on the edge of her bed and wept.

Claire kept a hand on Lily’s shoulder and led her out of the room.

Mr. Turner seemed to be avoiding her this morning. Meg didn’t mind too much. It was better than when he was nagging at her, but it did put her teeth on edge. She had done her homework and had done her best on it. But he hadn’t looked at their work yet.

The class was quiet, doing a whole page of math problems. Meg did them in her usual fast way, not dawdling the way she had been doing the last few weeks. They got too boring if you did them slow. She had been coming up with an idea in her head, and she wanted to work on it. If she got all her math done, she could stare at the finished problems and think.

Sometimes the numbers even gave her ideas. Last year she had come up with a whole world in her head. Seven was the boy, five was the girl, nine was god, and two and three were the children. Eight was the evil man.

Eight also stood for infinity, a concept that scared her deeply. A number that just went on and on in itself. Sometimes when she was doodling she would draw an eight and then draw an eight in one of the loops and then another eight in one of the smaller loops and see how many eights she could draw. When she realized that if she could draw small enough, she would be drawing eights forever, she felt like she was looking down the mouth of infinity. What went on with no end.

During this difficult time in Mr. Turner’s class, she had realized that she didn’t have to always read the stories, that she had a lot of them in her head and that she could follow them there. The stories unrolled in front of her if she let them.

“Meg, could I see you for a few minutes during recess?” Mr. Turner surprised her, coming up behind her.

He would have to tell her that fifteen minutes before they left for recess. Now she would worry for the whole time. She had been working on a story in her head, but it left her when she worried. Then she remembered what she and her mom had talked about, and she was determined to deal with Mr. Turner.

The fifteen minutes went by very slowly. Meg turned in her math paper with everyone else and then watched them all walk out the door. She and Mr. Turner were alone in the room. She walked up to his desk.

“Meg, I had a nice talk with your mother.”

Standing this close to him, Meg saw that his eyebrows looked bigger than ever. Meg nodded.

“She and I discussed how you were not working up to your potential.”

What a horrible word—potential. Sounded like you were a math equation, and you were supposed to equal something, but you didn’t quite make it. She knew people weren’t math, even if you could make numbers into characters.

“Meg, do you understand?”

She hadn’t realized he wanted her to say anything. “Yes, Mr. Turner.”

“Do you agree?”

“I think I’ve been goofing off a little.”

“That has to stop.”

She thought his eyebrows looked like two hairy caterpillars, and sometimes she pretended they were about to kiss when he scrunched his forehead, but because the image made her laugh, she tried to avoid it now.

“Your mother and I have agreed that if you do all your homework and all the class assignments and get your grades up, we will allow you to read in class. But everything has to be done and done well. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Meg was thrilled that she could start reading again. But she wanted to make sure she would not have any more trouble from Mr. Turner for the rest of the year. “I had an idea too.”

“What is that, Meg?”

“Well, I was wondering if I could write a story for extra credit.”

Mr. Turner smiled. It was not a wonderful sight. He did it so infrequently that it looked like he was in pain. “What a good idea. Do you know what you want to write about?”

What a stupid question. She had a million ideas. Ideas were not the problem, writing them down was. “Yes, I want to write a new fairy tale about a little girl all alone in the woods and how she survives.”