January Thaw (The Murder-By-Month Mysteries) (7 page)

“It’s my Sandy,” she said in answer to my expression. “She’s lived with me for two years. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Dogs are the only things that love another person more than themselves.”

“You’ve obviously never been to an Al-Anon meeting,” Mrs. Berns muttered under her breath.

“Wait, you have?” I asked her.

The grandma took that moment to snap her book closed and return to the party, an annoyed expression on her face.

Mrs. Berns wiggled her eyebrows. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, missy.”

I was taken aback. She was absolutely right. She was so honest and forthright and I was so comfortable with her that I hadn’t bothered to plumb her past. Her husband had died ten years ago, that much I knew, and she had kids who had tried to confine her in a high-security nursing home last October. I also knew that she got laid more in a bad week than I did in a good month. She’d lived in or near Battle Lake her whole life, she never let life get her down, and she preferred to wear replica six-guns holstered at her sides, though she’d given up this accessory for the winter. But did she dream of traveling the world? What had her life with her husband been like? What was her favorite drink?

“Quit looking at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a commercial for an animal shelter and your brain is running some pitiful commentary along the bottom of my screen. I just made that crack to get rid of Emma. If she’d referred to her dog as her ‘child,’ I woulda had to kick her, and the Al-Anon comment seemed kinder.”

I cocked my head. She was sounding more like her old self. Still, something was a little off. “You sure you don’t want to talk?”

“You sure you want me to tell this room full of children that when you’re alone, you dream of Chief Wenonga walking his fiberglass legs over to your house and showing you his totem pole?”

“Okay,” I said, turning to the children and clapping loudly, my voice dripping with false cheer. “Time to get cleaning!”

The kids groaned and fell to the ground as if their bones had turned to rubber, but we were already fifteen minutes over the scheduled time. Even if I didn’t have Mrs. Berns’s threat burning the tips of my ears, I wanted to make visiting hours at the hospital so I could check in with Gary. The moms glanced at their cell phones or watches and began cleaning up the party area with the precision of worker ants. If the United States could only harness the power of moms, we’d break our dependence on oil once and for all.

The library was cleared out in less than twenty minutes, and I swear it was cleaner than it had been pre-party. No thanks to Mrs. Berns, of course. She’d snuck out as soon as the picking-up began. I made a note to myself to track her down soon so I could ask her more questions about herself. At this moment, though, my priority was visiting one Gary Wohnt so I could question him about the shooting.

Entering the hospital empty-handed seemed in poor taste, but I didn’t want to buy Gary flowers and I didn’t know what kind of food he liked. Using the tried-and-true maxim, “If you bring something you like, you know at least one person will be happy,” I purchased four Nut Goodies at a gas station on my way. I polished off one before I hit the parking lot, leaving three, which seemed like a better number anyhow, and here’s my reasoning: if there was someone else already there, we’d each have one. If I brought in four Nut Goodies, though, it’d devolve into one of those embarrassing social situations where everyone had to pretend like they didn’t want the extra one.

Gary’s room was on the second floor. I made my way to the elevator, trying not to stare at the people wearing robes and pushing IVs as they shuffled down the hallway. It seems to me that if you’re admitted to the hospital, you should stay in your room or go home, but what did I know?

No matter how many times I’d visited a hospital, I still couldn’t get used to the sense that germs were settling on every inch of me in a light mist. I hit the “2” button in the elevator with my elbow, smiling apologetically at the man I was sharing it with.

“Germs,” I said, showing him my jazz hands.

He pretended not to hear me, and so I pretended the elevator came to a screeching stop on the second floor, forcing me to rub my germy elbow against him to keep my balance.

“Sorry,” I said. I’d been hanging out with Mrs. Berns far too long.

Following the signs to room 227, I stood outside the cracked door. It struck me—probably much later than it should have—that I was about to see Gary Wohnt vulnerable. In bed. Possibly wearing little more than a gown.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and slipped through the crack in the door.

No part of my imagination could have prepared me for what I saw.

Fifteen

“Miranda Rayn James!”

Gary knew my middle name. And he was alone. The top half of his bed was raised so he could sit comfortably. One leg lay relaxed on the bed and the other was bandaged and suspended from the ceiling in some sort of sling. Both appendages were naked, but that wasn’t what shocked me. It was his expression. He looked as joyful as a child who’d gotten a pony for Christmas, and he was directing all this happiness at me.

I glanced behind me. Had someone else entered, a woman with the same name as me but whom Gary actually liked?

“Come in! I was hoping you’d visit.” His words were slurred and his dark hair tousled, a thick lock of it dangling over an eye. He was wearing a blue hospital gown, and I was thankful to see boxers peeking out from the bottom of it.

“Gary?”

“Have a seat!” He patted the small open spot on the single bed he was occupying. There’s no way I could sit there without our hips touching. This from the man who regularly treated me like I was something he’d accidentally stepped in.

“Have you found God?” I asked.

He visibly pondered the question. While he did that, I checked the tag on his IV drip. Cephalosporin and morphine. Mystery solved.

“I have looked for God, I truly have.”

The corner of my mouth tipped. I reveled in the moment. It had been a crappy couple days. Hell, it’d been a crappy decade. You can let that get you down, or you can find joy in the small moment, like this one. I actually had the upper hand over Gary.

“You are not wearing pants,” I said, both to test his awareness and to divert a possible sermon.

“Pants.” He pronounced the word as if he was tasting it. “Pants.”

“When do you get out?”

“Groundhog’s Day?” he asked, giggling. It was a deep, cheerful sound, but he covered his mouth like a schoolgirl while he did it. “But only if we have six more weeks of winter.”

I pulled up a chair. Gary Wohnt, high and pantsless. This was going to be more fun than a room full of nuns with Tourette’s, to borrow one of Mrs. Berns’s favorite sayings. “What happened to you, anyhow? Who shot you?”

He glanced at his leg, surprised. He fought for focus, and for a moment he looked like Police Chief Wohnt. “White male, twenty-five to thirty, wearing a cap yanked down low. I pulled him over for speeding and driving without a license plate. I approached, he shot.”

My heart clutched. I realized how lucky Gary was that it hadn’t been worse. “What kind of car?”

He turned toward me. “Is that your business?”

Dangit! Had the morphine just worn off? I flicked the IV tube with my finger in case there was blockage. “I want to help.”

“You can help by getting me some water.” He pointed at the table just out of his reach.

I stood and poured him a glass. When I turned, I caught him staring at my butt as though it held the secret of the Sphinx. I cleared my throat.

“
Miranda Rayn James! You came to visit me.” He accepted the water, the glassy look back in his eyes. “So many dead bodies you could be finding, and instead you’re here with me.” He giggled again. There was something infectious about it.

“Well, I gotta keep it lively,” I said, winking.

“Yes, you do.” He knit his brows together. “Say, can you help me?”

“You want me to reach something else for you?”

“I want you to gather information on the guys who are bringing the drugs. The gang-bangers. Can you do that for me without getting into trouble?”

“Was Maurice a gang-banger?” I asked, pulling my chair up close.

“Dunno.” He sat back. “Do you know where the remote is?”

“Gary.” I put my hand on his arm. He studied it. “Was Maurice part of a gang from Chicago that is bringing drugs into this area?”

“Dunno. But I do know the gang showed up the same time as the OxyContin patches. Don’t know where the base is. We just know it’s near town.”

“Battle Lake?”

He smiled dreamily. “Battle Lake.”

“What did Maurice die of?”

“Death.” His smile widened. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

My skin flushed from head to toe. I definitely had not foreseen this conversational turn.

“Kiss me. Kiss me now.”

I stood so fast that I knocked over my chair. This couldn’t only be the morphine talking. He must also be having an allergic reaction to the antibiotics.

“Um, I should be going.”

“Pretty, pretty, pretty. I think you’re as pretty as a peach.” He held his finger to his mouth in a comically exaggerated “sssh.” “Don’t tell Kennie,” he said, in a drunk man’s whisper.

The fun was definitely over. This was not at all what I had planned. “How about we don’t tell
anyone
? In fact, how about we forget that I even stopped by?”

I was in such a hurry to escape that I dropped a Nut Goodie. I would have gone back for it, except Gary was singing “Unforgettable.” I stress ate the remaining two Goodies before I reached my car.

Sixteen

I’d forgotten the Maurice
Jackson print-out at the library, so I had to stop by there on my way home. Once inside the toasty building, the encounter with Gary fading to an unpleasant memory, I decided I might as well finish my research as long as I was there. I flicked on the track of lights over the front desk, turned on the computer so I could cross-reference as needed, sharpened one of the stubby library pencils, and grabbed two manila folders. I labeled one “Operation Offerdahl” in honor of the case I was actually getting paid to research. I tossed around a couple names for the second folder before settling on “Cold Case.” It was dark humor, to be sure, but the name had less to do with the way Maurice had died than the fact that I had few leads and no reason to look for more. I had no tangible stake in finding out who Maurice really was and what had happened to him, no incentive other than curiosity and a feeling like I owed him something.

Once my meager paperwork was organized, I made my first call, to a Maurice Aames Jackson at 1355 West Greenleaf Avenue in Chicago, Illinois. There was no answer. I put a chicken scratch next to his name, shorthand for “tried once.”

The next name on my list was Maurice Carver Jackson, living at 1640 North Orchard Street. He picked up on the second ring. He sounded old, and I hadn’t rehearsed what I was going to say.

“Hello, sir! I’m calling from the Chicago Public Library, and someone has returned a library card with the name of Maurice Jackson. Have you by chance lost your library card?”

“Chicago Public Library?”

“Yessir.”

“Then why does my caller ID say ‘Battle Lake Public Library?’”

Shit. He was going to make detective before me. “All our library calls are routed through one central location.”

“Izzat so? I suppose you have a bridge you want me to buy, one that just so happens to span the Dumbass River?”

I was torn between the urge to hang up and the desire to ask him if he was single so I could set him up with Mrs. Berns. “I’m sorry. I am calling from the Battle Lake Public Library. It’s in Minnesota. I really did find a Chicago Public Library card with the name of Maurice Jackson on it, and I’m trying to track him down.”

“It ain’t mine, but can I offer you some advice?”

That’s a question that rarely deserves a yes. “Sure.”

“Tell the truth.” Click.

He had a point. Then again, I had so few natural skills—lying being toward the top of the list—that it seemed counterintuitive to limit myself arbitrarily. I tried three more numbers. Two were home, both dead ends. It was a bit demoralizing, particularly since I didn’t even know how old the library card was. Maurice Jackson could have moved out of Chicago months ago. I decided to take a break from calling numbers to do the work I was actually being paid for. Going on Curtis’s tip that Eric Offerdahl had been seen around Swederland and specifically in the vicinity of the new brewery, I dialed their number.

“O’Callaghan’s.” The voice was female and perky.

“Hi. Is the brewery open for tours?”

“Of course! In the winter, we have tours at the top of every hour Tuesdays and Saturdays from noon to eight.”

“Do I need a reservation?”

“Not this time of year.”

“Sounds good. Hey,” I said, hoping I sounded like I just thought of it, “is Eric Offerdahl working this Tuesday?”

“I’m sorry. We can’t give out employee information.”

Was it my imagination, or had her voice gone frosty? “I don’t need any personal info. I’m just wondering if Eric is working there. I haven’t seen him in a while. It’d be great to catch up.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I recognized a brush-off when I heard it. “No, thank you. I appreciate your time.”

“O’Callaghan’s thanks you for your interest! We hope to see you soon.”

That they will
, I thought, as I hung up the phone.
Probably this Tuesday, in fact
. I was about to shut down the computer when the front door opened. Hadn’t I locked it?

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re not open on Sundays.”

The track of lights above me was illuminated, but I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights over the front door. The person was definitely a male, his head leaning so far down that the top of his cap was facing me.

“Sir? We’re not open. You can come back tomorrow at ten.”

He stepped into the light at the same time he lifted his head. It was Ray, the mewling, tweaking freak Maurice had saved me from.