January Thaw (The Murder-By-Month Mysteries) (9 page)

Twenty

The book return bin
was overflowing when I arrived at work. How it could fill up when the library was closed always amazed me. There must be some sort of traveling virus that compelled mobs of people to bring back all their books at once. Either that, or it was connected to the phases of the moon. It didn’t matter because reshelving books was one of my favorite parts of the library gig. It provided for me the same satisfaction as weeding my garden in the summer, letting me sink into the meditation of putting things where they belonged, removing stuff that didn’t, and generally restoring order to the universe.

My opening duties took all of twenty minutes. I unlocked the front door three minutes early and stopped by my computer to check email before the first patrons arrived. My inbox was littered with spam offering me big boobs, sexy love mustache partners, and access to Jessica Simpson’s beauty secrets. If I possessed any one of those, I was sure I wouldn’t need the others. I deleted the spam and was left with one legitimate message, from Carter Stone at the Prospect House:

Mira,

Sorry you missed your visit in all the commotion, but of course we understand. Stop by anytime for a private tour.

Carter

I hit Reply and wrote that I’d like to stop by after work today between five and six o’clock. Might as well get to it lickety-split. Email responded to, and since I didn’t yet have clientele or any pressing work, I figured I might as well open up the Cold Case file and call the rest of the Maurice Jacksons in Chicago so I could cross another item off my to-do list. Finding someone who could tell me more about him might shed light on what he had been doing in Battle Lake, and specifically what had gotten him killed.

I made thirteen successful calls in that I reached either a Maurice Jackson or the wife or child of a Maurice Jackson, but all thirteen were dead ends, either not owning a library card or never having been to Minnesota. I left a message with the two others, one that had a male voice on the answering machine and the other with a female voice. I left my name, my home number, and said I was calling from Minnesota and looking for Maurice, and then I made a note next to both numbers so I’d know who I had left to talk to. The library was starting to pick up, so I organized my notes before going to work helping people find books, shelving returns, and generally picking up the library.

Mrs. Berns showed up around lunchtime, still seeming a bit off. She didn’t want to talk about it, though, so we both kept about our business. I was trying to clean a dusty, musty corner of the textured ceiling, all the little boinkies dropping on my upturned face and shoulders, when I heard a familiar throat clearing.

“Hi, Brad,” I said, not glancing down. Brad—Bad Brad, as I referred to him in my head—had been my boyfriend in Minneapolis when Sunny first asked me to house-sit. We broke up right before I moved, and ending our dating life was one of my smartest moves ever. It was a comical irony that he was now living in Battle Lake.
Good one, Fate. Maybe you could reintroduce into my life every bad choice I’d ever made on some sort of rotating schedule, starting with my seventh-grade Ogilvie home perm.

“Hey, Mira.”

I recognized the particular voice he saved for rare moments of sadness. I chose to concentrate instead on delicately wiping the ceiling boinkies, imagining them to be ancient stalagmites and my dust cloth a huge bat weaving in and out.

He sighed, a long, tortured, drawn-out sound.

I did the same. “What is it?” I finally asked, dropping my arms. My hands instantly began to tingle as the blood returned to them.

“What do you mean?”

I rolled my eyes. Bad Brad was a handsome guy, it was true, with sort of a blonde Jim Morrison thing going on. Plus, he was in a band and I’m sorry, but that counts for something. Unfortunately, he was as smart as mud and as deep as a wading pool. And right now, his mascara was smudged, make-up being his new hallmark since he’d formed his latest group, Iron Steel, tagline “twice the metal.”

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

His shoulders slumped even farther, and he made a pitiful swipe at his eye. “I think my girlfriend is cheating on me.”

I snorted, but at his wounded expression turned it into a cough, which ultimately came together as some sort of donkey honk. Cuz here’s the deal. Did I mention that I had actually
caught
Bad Brad cheating on me? I still wasn’t sure if “caught” was the right word. I witnessed him giving skin flute lessons after a hunch had me staring down a skylight into a borrowed bedroom, but I never confronted him because I sincerely doubted he could juggle an erection and a confrontation without burning through his wiring. So I’d simply moved without telling him why.

“The vomit returns to the dog,” Mrs. Berns said, walking by with a stack of books in her arms. I didn’t know if she was referring to me or Bad Brad. I glared at her in case it was me.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told Brad, mostly truthfully. It’s easy to forgive an ex after you finally realize you never should have dated him in the first place.

“I was going to marry that woman,” he said, his face hanging so low that he resembled a bloodhound. Opening for KISS. He was wearing a leather jacket, a scarf, and a full face of make-up, after all.

“What’s her name?” I asked, unsurprised at his confession. Bad Brad’s marriage proposal was a cheap dress worn by too many women. He’d proposed to me twice while we were dating, once because he felt bad for showing up late and another time because he really liked my dress.

“Samantha. She’s an insurance salesman in Alexandria.”

“I think you mean ‘agent.’”

“No,” he said. “She sells insurance. For sure. I’ve been to her office.”

My head hurt. A home perm would actually be preferable to this conversation. Heck, I’d even wear jelly shoes and acid-washed jeans while Fate put the curlers in. “That sounds really crappy, Brad. I’m sorry for you. But I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“That’s what I’m here about,” he said, his face brightening marginally. “I want to hire you to find out what Samantha is up to.”

Mrs. Berns cackled from the other side of a bookshelf. I stepped off the ladder I’d been using and stood in front of Bad Brad. I had to crane my neck to look him in the eyes. Up close, he smelled like the Calvin Klein Obsession cologne I used to buy him.

“I can’t help you,” I said. “It’d be a conflict of interest since we used to date.”
And you’re always broke, and I’d rather roller skate naked through town than dig around your personal life.

All hope drained out of his face. My heart tugged for a moment, but I held firm. It really was the best thing for him. Plus, Mrs. Berns was now laughing so hard that I couldn’t hear myself think.

Bad Brad nodded dejectedly and shambled out without another word. Mrs. Berns walked over to me and together, we watched him go.

“I’m not saying the boy’s dumb,” she said, “but I’d be real surprised if he could fart and chew gum at the same time.”

I nodded. Truer words. “Do you think his girlfriend is cheating on him?”

“I sure would,” she said. “He’s got the cute, but that doesn’t fill up a woman for long. Anyways, why would you care? He’s getting what’s coming to him.”

“I suppose.” I turned my full attention on her. “Hey, why do you have your coat on?”

“I’m punching out early today. I got errands.”

“Like what?”

“Like none of your business.”

And she left.

Twenty-One

The driveway leading to
the Prospect House had been recently salted, which was good, as the unusual warm-up had slickened the roads. I’d also noticed it was making people crazy jumpy like hibernators that’ve been awoken prematurely. I caught two separate patrons—regulars, both of them—walking out without checking out their books first, and one couple making out behind the encyclopedias. When I dropped a heavy book to get their attention, they both jumped up and scurried away, their expressions dazed. The weather was doing something to us. I could feel it in my own blood, which seemed to be moving a little faster and hotter than usual. Too bad Johnny was out of town tonight, performing in the Cities with The Thumbs.

As I parked my car, I realized it was the only one in the Prospect House lot, which gave me the opportunity to pretend like everything I laid eyes on was mine. I climbed out of my Toyota and glanced at the rear of the stately, shabby chic mansion with its ornate woodwork and matching servants’ building next door. Maybe I was just returning from a quick jaunt to Italy to check on my vineyard, or a short flight to New York to visit with my stockbroker? Maybe my housekeeper was waiting inside with dinner. Or, maybe I had slipped on yesterday’s jeans this morning, the only pair that hadn’t shrunk overnight, and was about to get a tour of a cool old mansion so I could write a story about it. Yeah, that version fit best.

The front of the mansion, the side facing West Battle, had an ornate oak door trimmed with hand-carved designs and a huge metal knocker hung in the center. That door, Carter had informed me, was unused because it needed too much work, which is why the path wasn’t shoveled. He’d instead requested I enter through the rear, a very plain wooden door that opened just as I reached for its knob.

“Mira James, I presume? Welcome!”

Carter Stone and I had never crossed paths, which in a town the size of Battle Lake was a small miracle. I’d seen photos of him on the
After the Battle
contributors’ page, but those had been black-and-white and fuzzy. In real life, he was a handsome man in his sixties with an aging Peter Fonda
à
la
Easy Rider
air about him. His face was defined by a bushy gray-brown mustache and smile crinkles at the edges of his brown eyes. He was wearing a Civil War–style cap, a flannel shirt tucked in dark blue jeans, and work boots.

“Thank you. And thanks for making time to see me.”

“Glad to have you. Any press we can get for the Prospect House is good press.”

He led me into the kitchen, which looked and smelled like any farmhouse kitchen, though larger, with a mix of antique vases and modern appliances crowding the cupboards. A moveable butcher’s block stood in the center of the kitchen, loaded with memorabilia. The far wall displayed reproduction postcards of the Prospect House from the early 1900s.

“These are so pretty,” I said, stepping over for a closer look. “Do you have the originals?”

“Thousands,” he said. “When I bought the house, every square inch was packed.”

I thought of Gilbert Hullson. “Were the owners hoarders?”

He pushed his hat back and scratched the top his head before pulling the cap back in place. “I don’t think so, at least not in the traditional sense. Everything was neat and organized. It’s just that the house had become so expensive to heat that they ended up using it more as a storage space than anything.”

“That’s terrible.”

He shook his head. “Best thing that could have happened, really. I don’t have all the rooms cleaned out yet, but the ones that are have given up treasures you wouldn’t believe. That’s why I turned this into a museum. We’ve got Battle Lake’s history here, and a good piece of the Civil War to boot. Unfortunately,” he said, chuckling, “I’m a bit house poor at the moment. I’m hoping to get the place on the Historical Registry so I can save it, but until then, I’ve got to keep people coming through here so I can afford to heat and update it. That’s why I’m offering tours before all the rooms are done.”

“How much are you charging?”

“I ask for goodwill donations.”

“What? How’re you going to make money that way?”

He shrugged and led me into the next room, the dining room. “Anyone who wants to should be able to check out what we have here. Like this—see this rug?”

I glanced down at the gorgeous ruby-red Persian nearly as large as the room and patterned with exquisite golds and greens. I nodded.

“I cleared off boxes and found it underneath, good as new. I had an appraiser here who said it’s a hundred years old.” Every room he brought me into had a similar story of some treasure discovered. My favorite was the master bedroom, where he’d found pearl and jade jewelry from the 1920s that were now lying out on a dresser.

“Can I touch them?” I asked. I was drawn to a carnelian necklace, the stone the size of an apricot pit and set in gold. The chain was cleverly crafted into an interlocking leaf pattern.

“Be my guest.”

I picked up the ornate necklace. It was surprisingly heavy, the gold so bright yellow that I questioned its authenticity. I flipped it over.
Tiffany & Co.
was stamped on the back of the carnelian’s setting. My breath caught. “You just leave this jewelry lying out?”

“Yup.”

“What if someone steals it?”

“We don’t have the money for locked viewing cases yet. If I don’t set them out, people won’t be able to see them.”

“Can I take photographs?”

With his permission, I began snapping pictures of the jewelry, hand-crafted furniture (some of it original), and delicately hand-painted wallpaper. The building and collections were amazing, stunning, and right in my backyard. I couldn’t believe he let people walk through here unsupervised, for free if they couldn’t afford better. Even if everyone was as honest as Carter seemed to believe, what would stop a child from slipping a shiny bauble into her pocket? That thought spurred a memory. “Can I see the attic?”

He stopped, his hand on the third-floor stairway newel. “Afraid not. It’s sealed off. I just recently cleared out space in the landing that would take you there.”

I called up a picture of the little girl’s face as it had appeared in the attic window on Saturday while I’d been skating. I now knew definitively that it had been a sleep-deprived illusion. Yet …

“Any rumors of this place being haunted?” I asked. Suddenly, the stairway felt like a threat, the shadows malicious rather than quaint.

He kept walking and I followed, tamping down my fear. It wasn’t easy, as I had the feeling he was deliberately avoiding answering me. We’d reached the third floor, which had an Alice-in-Wonderland feel due to the close walls and six-foot ceilings. He pushed a black button in the wall, and a string of yellow lights lit up. He pointed toward a far corner, past desks and tables and boxes and garbage bags. “That leads to the attic. As for haunted, it’s an old house. There’s always been rumors. Most of them center on the hanging.”

I swallowed hard. “What hanging?”

“A black man hung himself on the grounds near the end of the Civil War. Didn’t know if he was from the North or the South, didn’t know where to send his effects. It was the landowner’s daughter, an Offerdahl, who found the body. She was staring up at it, if the stories are true, and she was mute from that day forward, until she died a year later.”

I felt the devil walk up my spine. “I think I’ve seen enough up here,” I said.

“Then let’s go to the basement!” His eyes danced. “That’s where all the Civil War memorabilia is.”

Two hours later, I had my head full of Civil War facts, dreams of vintage jewelry, and a nagging sense that I was missing an obvious connection. Maybe food would help. I stopped at Mrs. Berns’s downtown apartment on my way home to see if she wanted to join me, but no one answered her door. I popped into the Turtle Stew to purchase tater tot hotdish with a side of green beans to go. My stomach growled as I waited. Had I eaten lunch? Could I drive and eat hotdish at the same time?

When the waitress handed me the Styrofoam square, it had a satisfying weight. I took a big sniff, enjoying the smell of crispy, salty tots layered over a creamy blend of mushroom soup and ground turkey. I may have moaned a little. I wanted to race home to eat it but decided to stop by the library to pick up a copy of
After the Battle
, so I could further research the Prospect House from the comfort of home, my animals by my side, my belly protruding as it happily digested two pounds of hotdish like a snake with a rabbit.

Unusual for me, my strategy unfolded exactly as planned. An hour later, I’d licked out the inside of the Styrofoam, settled onto the couch with Luna at my feet and Tiger Pop on my lap, and was paging through
After the Battle
, an open notepad at my side. I turned the pages slowly, sucked into the history of the town against my will. The book contained photographs of downtown Battle Lake in the 1800s looking exactly like a
Little House on the Prairie
set, and copies of newspaper articles a hundred years old with titles like “America’s Answer to Humanity’s Challenge.” There was even a photo of Richard Nixon visiting Glendalough State Park in 1956.

I eventually made it to the page devoted to the Prospect House, which I’d read before but not with the same perspective as I had now. Unfortunately, it didn’t offer any new information, so I read through the newspaper articles looking for anything related to the House. This is the first I found, a near identical recounting of the story Carter had told me:

“Young Offerdahl Girl Finds Negro Hanging in Woods”

Poor Elizabeth Offerdahl, who lost her mother the day she was born and whose father died a hero in the war, has been dealt another blow. In a gruesome discovery, she found the body of an unidentified man, believed to be a recently freed slave, hanging from an oak tree in the woods behind the Prospect House. The body was in a serious state of decay, leading authorities to believe he had been hanging there for at least two months. He was dressed in a black jersey sweater, a collared shirt, gray or brown trousers, and new black shoes. The rope he hung himself with was new and much better preserved than his clothes or flesh. He was dangling nearly three feet off the ground, and it is surprising his body was not found earlier, as it was in a well-traversed area, though it is winter.

Unless identifying information is found in the effects or someone comes forward, the hanged man’s identity will probably never be known. Elizabeth is currently under the care of her uncle, Hugh Offerdahl, and his wife, Adelaide Offerdahl. She is being treated by Dr. Olson for debility.

The article was dated March 7, 1865. I read it twice and could still not process the focus on Elizabeth Offerdahl over the poor man whose life had been lost. I realized it was different times, but the reminder of just how different left me unsettled. I continued to page through the newspaper section of the book, hoping for a follow-up article. My search seemed fruitless, I thought, as I flipped one page after another and scanned the headlines. Then, I turned to the final page, and there it was: “Scarlet Fever Epidemic Claims Its First Victim: Elizabeth Offerdahl.” Below that was a photo of an eight-year-old girl with haunted eyes and the exact same heart-shaped face I’d seen in the attic window of the Prospect House.

It wasn’t a hallucination. She was haunting the House.

A greasy cold crawled down my spine. I suddenly had a strong urge to lock my door, even though that would be little protection against ghosts. Still. It couldn’t hurt. I gently lifted Tiger Pop off of my lap and stood, glancing over my shoulder and all around.

“Hey, Luna, come to the door with me.” It was all of seven feet away from where I’d been sitting on the couch, but that suddenly seemed a great distance.

She was game, though, and stood, tail wagging. I smiled. “Thanks—”

Before I got out her name, her ears flattened to her head, and she growled, a low, primal sound that scared my last wit, the one that had been holding strong. She was staring at the front door. Her scruff stood in the air, and she crouched. The room was charged with a buzzing energy. I was soul-terrified, prickles of heat and cold alternating across my skin.

Just when I thought I’d lose my mind in that humming, horrifying waiting space, a knock struck the front door like Death’s knell.