Signs of Struggle (34 page)

“We know how to look for a female,” Moon said, and everyone laughed.

I said, “Give it up, Squanto.”

Arvid looked nervous and adjusted his weight in the booth. His wife gave him a look and an elbow. He looked at Moon, who took a deep breath and put both of his hands on the table. Harmon looked particularly interested, so I knew he had no foreshadowing. Liv studied her hands, perhaps a torn cuticle, snagged while groping the Sheriff?

Moon said, “It would have come out, anyway, Thomas, but you’re pushing the timing a bit.”

“Go ahead,” I said. Ruth moved closer to me and I felt her hip against mine. I briefly lost concentration.

Moon addressed the group. “A few nights ago I got a call from someone who said they wanted to talk to me about the person who had been hired to kill Thomas. This person told me to meet with him at Bloom’s in five minutes, and I did.

“Here’s what he told me. He had pulled in favors, made some threats, distributed money; whatever he could to find out whom to look for. He came up mostly empty, but he did find out that the shooter was a woman. So I got together with Horace, Arvid, and Mike to hang around Thomas at the Pork Festival and be on the lookout for a female who would be acting suspicious and approaching Thomas. So we did what we did. But it cost us Horace, and I’d like to offer a toast to him and to his memory. God bless Horace Norris!” And with that, we raised our glasses, and I said, “So say we all!” And everyone answered in kind.

Then I noticed Harmon was about to come out of his seat. “I don’t believe this! You weren’t fortunate, Moon, you were flat out damn lucky! Why the hell didn’t you tell me this, and who was it that told you to watch for a woman? I could have used that information and maybe Horace wouldn’t be in the ground now, but sitting here with us! I want to know, Moon!”

Lunatic and Harmon engaged in a staring contest, then Moon said, “It was Jurgen.”

“I don’t get it,” Ruth said. “I mean,” she said, shifting around in her seat, “How would Jurgen know? I don’t know, it just seems out of character, is all.”

Moon snorted. “He told me all the violence had the potential to mess up land values, and another murder in Rockbluff would cost him millions on paper. But he also told me that, even though Thomas was a pain in the ass, he didn’t want him dead.”

There was a significant buzz at that point, with Julie Schmidt saying loudly, “We don’t want you dead, either, Thomas!”

“And so say we all!” Arvid shouted, raising his glass.

“And so say we all!” everyone replied, except for Harmon, who was still angry at Moon.

Harmon said, “Okay, Moon, you and I go back, friends, and I appreciate your good intentions, but you still haven’t explained why you didn’t tell me. I’m the professional here, and I might have been able to step in and not only protect Thomas, but keep Liv here from being shot, Horace being killed, and the shooter alive to stand trial.”

“Fair question, my friend,” Lunatic Mooning said, “but you had your hands full of responsibilities only you and your men could have handled officially—directing traffic, those two assaults with the participants having to be jailed, the stabbing, drunk and disorderlies, people from Minnesota…”

The reference to Minnesotans draw a couple of faint laughs as Moon tried to cool down Harmon. It didn’t work. Moon continued, “So we felt like it fell to us to try to intervene.”

“You made a big mistake, Moon. I’m sorry to have to say this, but you were wrong. I know you meant well, and you kept Thomas alive, but you ended up with one of our old friends dead, Thomas and Liv wounded, and the shooter dead. Not to mention where the blame might fall on Maggie Rootenbach’s murder.”

“You better not go any further, Harmon,” Moon said, standing, “or I’m afraid we might have to take this out into the parking lot. That’s a cheap shot bringing Maggie’s death into the conversation. I resent it.”

Harmon stood up quickly, his chair skittering behind him and tipping over. Liv reached down and righted it, fear on her face. Payne said, “I resent you and your Barney Fife approach to law enforcement, and if there’s any way I can charge you with anything, obstruction of justice, interfering with a police investigation, discharging a firearm in the city limits, I will. Now, I better leave before we both say things we’ll regret.”

Harmon reached out and Liv took his hand and they left together. I manned up and looked in her face as they passed by, but she kept her eyes straight ahead.

It grew quiet in The Grain, the festive nature of the gathering leaving like air from a soufflé. “Well, that went pretty well,” Rachel said, appearing behind Moon. Nervous laughter bubbled and died away.

“I haven’t had so much fun since the hogs ate my brother,” I said, and the level of laughter upticked a tad.

Just then, Carl and Molly Heisler showed up, and when the cheers started up again, the tension and anger fled like April snow.

I
drove Ruth home that night, again walked her to the front door of the stone manse that stood behind the church, as welcoming as a giant tomb. Lights shone in two rooms downstairs, and the porch light glowed as well. The upstairs remained dark, like the thoughts going through my head.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” I asked.

“That’s your beer talking, Thomas. I had a nice time, despite the little spat between Moon and Harmon. Did you notice the point of contention did not involve you, except as a secondary casualty?”

“I did notice, and it’s a blessing.”

“Good, I’m glad you were listening, not talking. I don’t think you can count too much on your words at this point in the evening.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“See what I mean?” she said.

“I should probably check out the manse to make sure some psycho serial killer isn’t waiting inside with a meat cleaver in his hand.”

“You should probably not. But thank you for inviting me to go with you tonight. I enjoyed myself, and your company. You have no idea what a fine man you are.”

I didn’t say anything. I had a world of words I wanted to say, but I didn’t. Sometimes I surprise myself. The September breeze picked up a bit into a gust, a chilly gust.
Good. Autumn on the way. Best time of the entire year.

“I had a nice time, too, Ruth,” I finally said. I put my arm around her waist and drew her firmly to me and kissed her and immediately woke up inside. I wanted to kiss her again and again, and that was not my beer talking. It was as if my soul had been touched by her lips, and I wanted more. My heart surprised me by wanting to cheer. I did not understand anything other than kissing Ruth was a good thing.

“Here we go again,” she said, pulling away with a rueful smile. “I’m going inside, now,” she said. “I’m afraid I am not feeling very strong at the moment, and I know you aren’t, so I guess it falls to me to make the decision.” And with that, she was gone again inside the blue granite home. I heard the locks click and the porch light went out.

“Thomas?” A muffled voice from behind the solid oak door.

“What?”

“Did you hear the locks on the door clicking?”

“Yes, I did. And I am filled with remorse, yet grateful you are a woman of fortitude. That doesn’t mean I’m not wishing you were a woman of significant moral weakness.”

“That clicking was the locks to the door, not the lock to my heart. Good night, I’m going upstairs now and I won’t be able to hear you say another word. Sleep well, and thank you for being nice to me.”

“It’s easy!” I shouted as first one downstairs light went out, then another, casting everything on the ground level into darkness. In a moment, upstairs, a light came on. I wondered what she slept in, then chastised myself for the thought.

I wobbled my way to my truck and drove home.

In the morning, Gotcha woke me up with snorfles in my neck just under my right ear and, when I looked up, she pounced, her weight knocking me back. Then it was her game of “Don’t Let The Master Get To His Feet.”

She won until I said the magic word that always makes her stop whatever she is doing and pay attention to me, the King, the Source of Her Joy, the MASTER. I asked, “Eat?” and she leaped down from the bed, ran to her bowl, turned, and gave me the look.

I know how to follow instructions, so I got up, fed her, listened to her wet vacuuming of the porcelain dog dish, opened the front door for her to go out. It was chilly. Imagine.

My hangover was minimal, testimony to a growing tolerance for the brewer’s art and, after a shower and change of clothes, I felt good and strong. And hungry. So I let Gotcha in, watched her plop down on her tuffet for her morning nap, and drove in to town to grab some grunts. It was 2:17 PM when I got to the Grain o’ Truth Bar & Grill. My stomach was growling.

I ordered two Loony Burgers and a pint of Diet Coke, a double order of fries, and fried mozzarella cheese sticks, a nod to the memory of Bunza Steele and the cuisine of Shlop’s Roadhouse. While I ate, Moon and I talked about the Cubs and Red Sox, both hoping for an “official” World Series with those two teams. We talked about the break in the weather and football, and he commented on my “GEORGIA” sweatshirt I had pulled on when I noticed the chill after opening the front door for Gotcha.

“Why Georgia?” he asked.

“Because they’re the Bulldogs, Moon, and I used to live in Georgia, and I have a Bulldog. Connect the dots.”

“I do not believe you have a Bulldog, but I wish you did. I admire the breed.”

“I have a Bulldog,” I said, finishing my meal. “I’ll prove it to you sometime and bring her in. She is well mannered unless I am threatened, and she would add ambiance to this joint, something it could use.”

Moon smiled. “Bring her in. I’ll buy her a beer. Does she like beer?”

“Is she my Bulldog?”

We both laughed. A rare thing. I said, “After I dine, I think I’ll go pay a visit to a lady.”

Moon’s face shifted, the humor slipping away like oversized boxers on a Kenyan marathoner.

“She stopped by earlier this morning. She left this for you,” Moon said. “She knew you’d come by, creature of habit and connoisseur of good taste.”

He reached under the bar and brought forth a small, gift-wrapped box and a lavender envelope,
Thomas
written across the face in a delicate hand.

My stomach hurt. Moon’s eyes did, too.

I took the gift, the envelope. A little puff of pain went off in my chest. I knew. “Thanks, Moon, I guess I’ll be going,” I said, thinking of my precious privacy and a refrigerator stocked with beer and wine. Rum in the cabinet.

“Don’t be a stranger. And bring that Bulldog in with you next time you’re headed this way. I’ll buy her that beer.”

“Imported?”

“Is she your Bulldog?” Moon looked as if he had received bad news, not me. I guess he knew, too. After all, he had actually seen Ruth.

As I was leaving The Grain, someone played “Mother and Child Reunion” on the jukebox. When I arrived at my truck I got in, sat quietly, reminisced, and wept. Then I wiped my face and started the engine. Time to suck it up. Again.

I went by the bank, chatted up the girl teller who was nice to me. I stopped by the Hy-Vee. People inside were nice to me, too. One woman gave me a little hug when she saw my face, probably thinking something else was behind my expression other than run of the mill sadness. I looked in at The Earthen Vessel, but Mike wasn’t there. I drove around town, over the double arched limestone bridge, out to Shlop’s Roadhouse, back by Christ the King, down by the high school, back across the bridge, and home.

Back home, I put away the groceries and grabbed a pair of cold Three Philosophers and trudged out onto the deck with Gotcha. I opened the envelope first and read the brief note.

Dear Thomas,

I’m off to California to take care of some details and afford myself some time. I will avoid another Iowa winter, yet come spring, I’ll come back to stay. Then we can talk. The phone is charged and paid for, so give me a call at first snowfall and tell me how lovely it is from your place. Just push “1” on the cell. And make sure you give Gotcha a good rub for me now and then.

The note was signed,

Yours, Ruth

I unwrapped the box. It was a nice cell phone.

For a while I gazed to the north at the Whitetail River valley, and beyond, to the northeast, at the Mississippi River valley, and thought about “Yours, Ruth.”

Wisconsin never looked so good. Or Iowa, for that matter.

Well now
, I thought,
I’ve got some time to make myself acceptable for Ruth’s return.
Cell phone and note in hand, I ambled back inside. I said to Gotcha, “Let’s get started, girl. A lady is waiting.”

She wiggled her little corkscrew tail and sneezed. I laughed.

I set aside the Belgian Ale, took a deep breath, and punched in the numbers for the good Reverend Dr. Ernest Timmons back in Belue, Georgia, confident if I invited him up for a long visit, he’d come.

Sometimes I surprise myself.