The Lost Women of Lost Lake (6 page)

Emily's mother had worked at the local Piggly Wiggly for sixteen years. She'd begun as a checkout clerk the year Emily started kindergarten. Emily's dad was diagnosed with ALS a year later, none of which Emily remembered firsthand, although she did recall how quiet the apartment became—and stayed—after her father returned home from his first visit to the hospital in Duluth.

Eventually, they moved into Grandma Birgitta's house. It was a time of scrimping and scraping for everyone because her father was no longer able to work. He died when Emily was eleven. She'd been catastrophizing about his death for so long that when it happened, the tears she'd been crying for him for years had all but dried up.

Her grandmother, a dour woman who spoke with a Swedish accent, medicated her general grimness by baking cookies and pastries for the family and always seemed to be working on some craft project on the dining room table. She died the year Emily turned fourteen, leaving Emily wondering who would go next. She catastrophized constantly about losing her mother, her best friend, Karin, and her dog, a little Yorkshire terrier named Pastrami. Her world seemed to forever be growing smaller and lonelier.

For a while after her grandmother died, it looked as if she and her mom might have to leave the house and move back to an apartment. Although her mother had inherited the place, she still had to come up with the mortgage money each month. There simply wasn't enough money to go around. Emily would lie in bed at night and picture the two of them moving into a rat-infested tenement like the ones she saw on reruns of the TV show
Homicide: Life on the Street
. Weird as it might sound, what had saved them in the end was her mother's obsessive knitting.

Every evening for years, her mom would sit in the living room in front of the TV and knit late into the night, mostly mittens—because she loved the shape—but also sweaters, baby clothes, hats, purses, and scarves. She said it helped to keep her centered and to ease her stress. She enjoyed being productive. Mostly, Emily figured she knitted because she didn't like to admit that she was addicted to so many late night TV shows. She had trunks full of her finished projects, gave her wares away to friends, relatives, neighbors, the mailman, the refrigerator repair man, anyone and everyone who looked like they could use one of her creations. She eventually started selling her knitting at several gift shops in town. The extra cash began to add up and after a while her mom stopped talking about moving. Even so, Emily continued to imagine herself in one of those bleak Baltimore tenements.

“I might end up there yet,” she said, trotting down the front steps and crossing around to the side door. She'd just removed a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator when the overhead light snapped on.

“I was getting worried,” said her mom, coming into the kitchen carrying two empty wine glasses.

Emily gave her a quick hug. “I was out with Kenny.”

“You see a lot of that boy.”

She shrugged. “He's leaving for boot camp next month.”

“What's that?” asked her mom, nodding to a black and blue mark on Emily's left wrist.

“It's nothing.”

“Honey, that looks nasty. How did it happen?” She set the wine glasses down on the kitchen counter, took Emily's hand and gently touched the bruise.

“I don't remember how it happened.”

“Did Kenny do that to you?”

“Of course not.”

“He's got a temper, everyone in town knows it.” She looked Emily square in the eyes. “Tell me the truth. Are you getting serious about that boy?”

“Kenny?” She laughed. “No way.”

Taking both of Emily's hands in hers, she said, “Everything's okay, right?”

“Sure.”

“That new job's working out?”

“It's fine.”

“Because you could still go back to your old job.”

How could Emily explain that working as a checkout clerk at the Piggly Wiggly was utterly and totally demoralizing. Her mom had done it for years without complaint. Did that mean Emily thought she was better than her mom, that she was too good to do that sort of work?

Emily's mother was the best person Emily had ever known, and yet her mom's life had been made up of nothing but getting by and going with the flow. She rolled with the punches, as she liked to say, and always ended up on her feet. A haphazard life wasn't what Emily wanted. She'd been given one significant gift—her beauty. The problem was, professional models and actors were hardly in demand in Lost Lake. That's why she had to get out. The kind of life she craved couldn't be found in a small town. Maybe she was selfish. If so, she'd live with it. All she knew for sure was that her future would never include a fishing- and sports-crazed husband, a crummy part-time job at the local grocery store, and a bunch of squalling kids sucking up all her free time, not to mention the pregnancies that would ruin her figure. She had to run before she got stuck.

Changing the subject, Emily said, “I saw you having coffee with Fontaine this morning.”

“Don't get me started on that,” said her mom.

“Something wrong?”

“Not with Fontaine. With other people in this town.”

“Such as?”

“Lyndie LaVasser, for one. I'm so angry with her I could spit nails.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not now, honey.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Wendell's here.”

“I know. Look, I'm kind of tired. Think I'll head up to bed.”

“We'll turn down the TV so we don't bother you.”

“Oh, Mom,” said Emily, wrapping her arms around her mother and holding on tight. “I love you so much.”

“Where did that come from?” she asked, backing up a step.

“Just … like … wanted you to know.”

7

As the first rays of the morning sun burst over the lake, Jane showered and dressed in jeans and a heavy flannel shirt. She spent some time writing in her journal, and then went downstairs and grabbed herself a cup of coffee from an urn in the lobby. She carried the paper cup down the broad concrete steps in front of the lodge, breathing in the fresh morning air and drifting out to the beach. She was glad now that she'd let Cordelia talk her into coming along.

Finding a wood bench a dozen feet from the water, she sat down and stretched her legs. Her English mother would have called the moment “agreeable.” Jane had always liked the word. It carried such a wealth of meaning for her, a taste of her past, her first nine years growing up in England. After yesterday's late afternoon storm, the weather had turned deliciously cool. The sky was cloudless, a beautiful azure blue, and the sunlight turned the chop on the water into glittering jewels.

Cordelia hated mornings. She was back in her room, buried under a feather quilt, fast asleep. Jane had learned her lesson long ago and didn't even try to wake her. And anyway, spending time alone was what she'd been hoping for. She'd been wrestling with a decision for over a year, one she'd made and then unmade, an idea she'd toyed with and discarded, teetered on the brink of, then pulled back from, only to wonder if she'd made a mistake. She usually wasn't this ambivalent. This decision, however, was a big one.

Jane's father was a criminal defense attorney in St. Paul. As a child, she remembered listening to him discuss his cases at the dinner table—never in any great detail and yet enough so that she would become intrigued. Later in the evenings, after she was in bed and was supposed to be asleep, she would tiptoe to the top of the stairs, where she would listen to her father and mother down in the living room discussing the case in greater detail.

As Jane grew older, she followed her father's trials in the newspaper, always fascinated, trying to work out in her own mind what had really happened. Her first love had been food, which was why, ever since she'd spent a summer working at her uncle's restaurant as a teenager, she'd wanted her own. She'd made good on that wish with a career as a restaurateur, but in her late thirties, she'd come to see that she'd left a significant part of her interests unaddressed.

For many years, Jane had engaged in what others might term risky behavior. She'd helped friends, friends of friends, and even a few strangers with various criminal problems. She already knew she enjoyed the intellectual part of crime solving—connecting the dots, thinking about motives and means—and yet now, as an adult, she also discovered that she liked getting her hands dirty, liked the chase. She might not admit it out loud, but that frisson of danger made her feel more alive. There wasn't much physical danger involved in owning a couple of restaurants. Financial danger, yes. Danger to her health because of the stress, for sure, but not the kind of danger for which she had a growing itch. And then she met A. J. Nolan.

Jane remembered a time, not all that long ago, when she'd been absurdly pleased by his comment that she was a natural at criminal investigation. Shortly after he made the statement, he began to push. He wanted her to come work with him. He promised that he'd teach her everything he knew. He told her it was what she wanted, too, and, although the comment touched a chord inside her, she'd never liked it when people tried to tell her what she wanted.

Then came the ultimate incentive. Last spring, Nolan had offered to make her his partner. He'd even made up some business cards with both their names on it, cards she still carried in her wallet. She could work under his license until she'd put in enough hours to earn her own. Nolan was getting older and couldn't continue doing some of the more labor-intensive aspects of the job forever. If she signed on, he sweetened the deal even more by saying that he would leave the business, which included his name, his reputation, his files, his connections, and his client list, to her. Nolan & Lawless Investigations. It was a heady idea.

Jane
almost
jumped. But just as she was about to say yes, the economy tanked. She saw immediately that she needed to turn her entire focus on her restaurants. Nolan didn't understand. When he took a bullet a couple months ago while saving her life, the discussion was tabled. True to form, he'd brought it up again last week when he'd come to Blackberry Lake to stay with her at her family's lodge. Her inclination this time was to give him a firm no, and yet when the moment came, she hedged again.

This time, however, she did offer a promise. She would decide by the end of August. She set the deadline more for herself than for him. Her ambivalence was driving her nuts. In many ways, spending the week in Lost Lake was a godsend. Nolan could recover in the tranquil setting of her family's cabin and she could continue to think, while at the same time feeling no immediate pressure from him. And yet the pressure was on.

Last night, she and Cordelia had stayed at the cottage until just after eleven. Tessa finally consented to take a pain pill after Jonah offered to sleep in the loft above the living room instead of his usual spot in a room off the garage. He was apparently a light sleeper and would know instantly if someone tried to break in.

Jane had hoped to stay and talk to Jill about the possible identity of the Peeping Tom, but Jill said she was tired. Jane figured she wanted to talk to Tessa alone. What bothered her about the evening were the undercurrents she couldn't identify. Something was bothering Tessa that had nothing to do with her ankle. Her reaction to the Peeping Tom had made that clear.

Glancing at her watch, Jane recalled the she'd made a promise to come down to the cottage by nine to fix everyone breakfast—everyone, that is, except Cordelia, who would undoubtedly sleep until noon unless a tornado intervened. Since it was just after eight, that meant she had time for a walk.

Strolling along the shoreline, she watched a family of ducks paddle past the tip of the main dock. If the weather had been a little warmer, she would have removed her sandals, rolled up her jeans and waded in, but there would be plenty time for that later in the day.

As she passed the cottage, a group of gulls soared overhead, gliding into the water just a few feet from where Jill had moored their pontoon. Jane couldn't wait to get onboard and take a tour of the lake. It was amazing what enough sleep and a little rest and relaxation did for a person's general sense of well-being.

Half a mile down the beach, Jane saw an elderly woman in a light blue sundress come trudging through the sand toward her. The woman waved as if she knew who Jane was.

Jane waved back, then realized it was Helen Merland. “Hi,” she called.

“I thought I might find you out here,” Helen called back.

Jane wasn't sure why she thought that, though she was happy to see her.

Helen was a dear friend of Jill and Tessa's. Jill and Helen were related in some distant way that Jane could never remember. Nobody had to explain how complicated small town relationships could be. Pretty much everybody in town was linked to six major families—the Merlands, the Ivorsens, the Benoits, the Houtalas, the Dimitch clan, and the Welches. It was a microcosm of some of the ethnicities in northern Minnesota: Norwegian, Swedish, French Canadian, Finnish, Serbian, and Irish.

Back in the late nineties, Helen had come to stay at Jane's house during a spring graduation weekend. One of her many great-grandchildren was graduating with honors from the University of Minnesota. Over the years, Jane and Cordelia had been invited to dinner at Helen's home on at least half a dozen occasions, the most recent of which had taken place during their last visit to Thunderhook three years ago. In the intervening years, Helen had aged dramatically. Her white hair, usually done up in a loose bun, was worn wild and uncombed, and her erect posture had grown stooped.

Once upon a time, Helen Merland and her husband, Conrad, had been local royalty. Helen had been a whirlwind of activity, tall and hardy, full of ideas and high spirits. She ran a philanthropic foundation and in her spare time tended a flower garden in the back of her house that was a showpiece for the entire community.