June Bug (12 page)

I wasn’t the only one who thought she was the thief. “Why would she go all the way up there to hide it? Wouldn’t she be worried the Addamses would look in their own closet and come across it?”

Shirly appeared to consider this for the first time. He was the picture of thoughtful introspection. “You might be right. Maybe she was just stealing from them.”

“And do you think she came across the secret room with the bootlegging operation set up in it while she was
stealing
the jewels or while she was
hiding
them?”

Shirly tensed, and then he laughed. “You got a nosy streak the size of a lake. How’d you know about the moonshine?”

“I checked out the secret room last night. The setup is still there.”

“Still there, eh? I wondered about that. The room was built around it, you know. Prohibition was the scourge of the twenties, made honest men do dishonest things. The architect who built Shangri-La had a lucrative side business going building those rum rooms.”

I followed this information with a natural conclusion. “So the Addamses had him build a still into a secret room in their summer place.”

Shirly smiled in a faraway manner. “No, they didn’t. The architect was tired of getting a little money here and there for the rum rooms. He wanted one of his own. He knew that the Addamses wouldn’t be around much, and their house was going to be big enough to accommodate a secret room. All the workers knew about the room, but the Addamses never did. During the summer season, the rum room was untouched. When the Addamses boarded the place up for the winter, the distilling of spirits would commence.”

That crossed one theory off the list. “I thought maybe Regina had all you guys fired and was blackmailing the Addamses because she found out about the still.”

“She found the rum room, all right. Purely by accident. I caught her with a handful of jewels, digging for some more in the master bedroom closet. When I walked in on her, I scared her so bad that she accidentally tripped the wire that opened up the room.

“I told her right off that the Addamses didn’t know about the moonshine. They were the nicest people and didn’t need the trouble that would bring on them. Mrs. Krupps said that it would be our little secret—I wouldn’t tell anyone about her stealing and she wouldn’t tell anyone about the liquor.”

“So she lied to you?”

“Not technically. She never told the Addamses about the rum room. I imagine it was too perfect a hiding place for her booty. She did tell them that she caught me stealing, though, and that she thought the other workers were in on it. Now, you remember I wasn’t more than a boy. I was ashamed to be thought a thief, but I knew the Addamses would treat me better with that crime than the police would treat me as a moonshiner.”

I grimaced. “I think I know what happens next. The Addamses fire you, they reimburse the guests for the stolen jewelry, but jewelry keeps disappearing as long as Regina Krupps is staying at Shangri-La.”

Shirly nodded his head. “Jewelry’s not all. Mrs. Krupps’s husband disappeared, too. Those of us who got fired joked that she stole him and hid him in the secret chamber along with the rest of her ill-gotten gains.”

I shuddered at the thought. I was pretty sure I would have noticed a dead body, but I suppose one could have been hidden in one of the larger vats of the still. “So why did a rich lady need to steal?”

“You got me. I think it was one of those compulsions. She wasn’t well in the head. She spent a lot of time arguing with herself when she thought no one was listening, and I once saw her hiding acorns in her mouth just like a chipmunk. It was out back of the third servant’s cabin. That woman was a loon, but only sometimes. When she wasn’t loopy, she was wicked smart. That’s the worst kind of crazy if you ask me, but back then, they called her ‘eccentric.’ ”

It occurred to me that all of us were crazy sometimes. I was thinking specifically of the whole year I spent convinced that Jimmy Page was trying to contact me through hidden messages in Led Zeppelin’s fourth album, but I kept that to myself. “Why’d the Addamses sell Shangri-La?”

“The thievery got to be too much. The police were even brought in, but of course no one ever found anything. Mrs. Krupps was hiding the stolen loot right under everyone’s noses and never had to transport any of it. People got to talking about the place being haunted. The Addamses got too frustrated and pulled up roots and built elsewhere. Somewhere on the upper Mississippi, if memory serves.”

“And the stolen jewelry?”

“Never found.”

“Think she took it with her back to New York?”

“The police were pretty thick around Battle Lake at the end. A smart woman would have hidden the jewelry and come back later for it.”

My thoughts exactly. And all the evidence I had so far indicated that Mrs. Regina Krupps had been very smart, if a little bit crazy, and for some reason hadn’t returned for her jewelry. It was still in the neighborhood. I couldn’t wait to find out what Ron had to tell me about the secret message I had left with him.

The Battle Lake Police Department was located on my way back to the library, and I ducked in. This was the second time in two months that I had voluntarily visited the PD, which was a record for a small-town girl. When you grow up in an area where violent crime consists of cow tipping and vandalism is just a fancy word for toilet-papering a house, you get used to cops being more of an obstacle to a good buzz than a real necessity.

Chief Wohnt was at his desk in the front room. Actually, his desk
was
the front room, with a handful of chairs and filing cabinets thrown around to distract from the faux-wood paneling. He looked up when I entered and looked right back down.

“Hello, Chief.”

“I suppose you found another body.” He stated this as fact, as if it were the natural order of things.

“Nope.” I was determined to remain perky. “No body. Nobody. Ha!”

The Chief was immune to perkiness. He pulled out a pot of Carmex from his chest pocket and slathered it on his lips. Clearly, he had been trained in the art of mind games and was trying to get me to blurt out a confession for some unnamed crime by creating an uncomfortable silence. I was all over that.

“Anyhow, Chief. You know that little guy who was shot last night?”

Silence.

“By the ringmaster from that Romanov Traveling Theater group?”

He pulled out a pack of Big League Chew and stuffed the pink shreds into his cheek, careful not to mess his shiny lips. I caught a whiff of my favorite childhood brand of bubble gum and was reminded of simpler days when the big excitement in my life had been staying up to watch
Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom
. Would Jim get impaled by the waterbuck or have a goofy run-in with the vervet monkey? Tune in next week.

“Look, you know who I’m talking about. The extra-short guy who was killed by the ringmaster at Shangri-La last night. I have a right to this information as a public citizen and as a reporter.” I hoped this was true, and I hoped I could goad him into replying.

“He wasn’t killed.”

“Thank you. Where can I find him?”

The Chief leaned back in his chair and switched his gum wad to the other cheek. “When you find out, you tell me.”

“What?”

“He was brought to Lake Region Hospital last night. Somewhere between the ambulance and the hospital room, he disappeared. We have an APB out for him and the shooter.”

“You what? You lost a gunshot victim? What about the Romanov troupe?”

“Left town.”

“I can understand losing the little guy, but a whole theater company?”

The Chief blinked quietly at me and returned to his paperwork.

“You know, maybe you should spend less people power on raiding fields and more on catching possible murder victims.”

No reply.

“Say, speaking of field drinking, is it true that it’s down 43 percent in the Battle Lake area?”

“Yup.”

“Thanks.” I left more frazzled than I had arrived, the information of the past three days swirling in my head like floaters in the toilet. Shirly confirmed that Regina Krupps had been stealing jewelry from Shangri-La guests back in the twenties. He also said Mr. Wilson Krupps, her husband, had disappeared during the same time and that the Addamses never knew about the moonshining.

Fast-forward to today. I knew Jason was violent and that he was rooming with Samantha Krupps, who used to be a nurse for Regina and may or may not have been related to her. They were in town and searching for treasure. All the anecdotal evidence I had accumulated indicated that Regina had hidden her stolen stash in this area and never returned for it, and that she had told Samantha, who had told Jason, where to look for it.

At the same time they’re looking for the stolen jewelry, the
Star Tribune
runs a contest to find Regina’s missing necklace that likely had never been lost in the lake. Finally, a fake dead body is planted in the waters in front of Shangri-La and a man is shot by his theatrical boss, and then he and the ringmaster disappear before anyone can question them. I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence, and Jason had brought too much to town with him.

I went to the
Recall
office to find out how Ron’s detective work was coming. He was on the phone, a string of cherry licorice in his mouth and his wife on his lap. She wore a Walkman and was writhing and humming. He looked crabby.

I tried waiting until either the phone call or his wife finished, but both looked committed to the long haul. “Ron,” I hissed.

He waved dismissively in my direction.

“Ron! Did you finish that thing I left?”

He glared. “I’m on the phone!”

“Okay, I’ll go. Just tell me if you finished that puzzle.”

He shooed me with his hand again and took a big bite of licorice. His wife bent over and took a slow bite off the other end. Nothing was worth this. I turned to go.

“Wait, Mira!” Ron put his hand over the mouthpiece and handed the rest of the licorice to his wife. “That little guy who was shot last night called, said he had a story to tell. I told him to call you at the library since you were on this one. Why aren’t you at the library?”

“Because I’m trying to write the stupid stories you’ve assigned me!” Ron didn’t hear me. He had already gone back to his phone call. I closed the door and jogged up the street to the library. This could be the break I was waiting for to connect Jason with something that could get him in real trouble. I just hoped I hadn’t missed the phone call.

When I barreled into the library, I found it empty except for the books and Mrs. Berns soul-kissing the middle-aged, unmarried owner of the Trim and Tan. “Mrs. Berns! Did anyone call while I was out?”

She was oblivious to the outside world, but Tony pulled away and looked embarrassed. He tried to make like I had just caught them in the middle of a conversation. “Yes, I’d love to receive the library newsletter. And you have my name and address right down there. Very good. Good. Okay then, bye!” He stumbled out the door, tripping over his own feet.

Mrs. Berns wiped her mouth and smiled at his retreating figure. “He’ll be back.”

“Mrs. Berns, did anyone call for me?”

“A few people. Ya know, you’re a very popular girl.” She winked at me and doddered toward the door, her purse in hand.

“Mrs. Berns, did they say who they were?”

She fluffed her apricot hair and pursed her lips. “I’m sure they did, dear. It would be rude not to.” She continued to the door.

I tried to keep my voice level. “Who called for me and what did they have to say, Mrs. Berns?”

She sighed in a put-upon way. “A Wicket W. Warrick called. Said you’d want to talk to him because he had a good story to tell. He said he’d call back tomorrow about the same time, and if you weren’t here, you’d be shit outta luck. I didn’t care for him one bit. That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

Warrick must have been the little guy. “Who else called?”

“Gina, that nice girl married to that good-for-nothing Hokum boy. She said she’d talk to you tonight. And I think that was it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Berns. And I appreciate you opening up the library for me. That was really nice of you.”

“That’s a ten-four, good buddy.” Mrs. Berns set off the book alarms as she went out the door, but I didn’t stop her. I figured a couple paperbacks were a fair trade for helping a friend out of a jam.

I sat down heavily in my swiveling front-desk chair. Until Ron broke the code or Wicket W. Warrick called to let me know why he’d been shot and then disappeared, there was nothing to do but wait. I was a terrible waiter, and I was too antsy to do anything productive, which left me in mental purgatory. I started doodling on the scrap paper at the front desk with one of the standard-issue library mini-pencils.

I started out with a rainbow and clouds, and then I sketched a cool lake underneath, full of one-dimensional fish smiling at each other. Two fish seemed to be of the same species, so I drew a little hat and tuxedo on one and a wedding dress on the other. I added a clam to officiate and drew a large heart around the love trio.

The drawing irritated an itch that had been in my brain since I had talked to Shirly that morning. I worried it out of the back of my head. What had really happened to Wilson Krupps, husband to Regina? Her obituary said he had preceded her in death, but Shirly made it sound like he had fallen off the face of the earth. I went back online to the
Niagara Gazette
website where I had found Regina’s obituary.

The newspaper had contact information listed, so I called and asked if they had any more info on the Krupps family other than what was listed in the recent obituary. The woman I was talking to was friendly but didn’t have the information. “Regina Krupps was pretty famous around here, but I don’t remember her husband. You say he was mentioned in the obituary?”

“Yes. It says he preceded her in death. I’m doing a local article on her philanthropy, and I wanted to know how involved her husband was.”

“Well, I’ll need to have someone call you back. Could you spell your name for me, please?”

I dreaded spelling my name over the phone. I had some disturbing disorder where I was hellishly tempted to utter vulgar matches for the letters—M as in “masturbate,” I as in “intercourse,” et cetera. I didn’t know what that was. I was thinking of doing some volunteer work so if I ever gave in to my compulsion, I’d have a karmic buffer. “Mira James, just like it sounds. Thank you so much for your time!”

“Not a problem. You should get a call back soon.”

This left me with more waiting, so I went online to find a dessert recipe for my column in the
Recall
. There was a suggestions envelope taped on my desk, but the only recipes I got in there required cream of mushroom soup (even the desserts), and I wasn’t going to stoop that low. The Internet had so far provided me with great ideas. My two favorites on this current search were Snowman’s Balls and Barbecued Spiced Bananas. The first called for two cups of graham crackers, one cup of powdered sugar, two tablespoons cocoa, one cup of chopped nuts, a quarter cup coconut syrup, a quarter cup brandy, and shredded coconut. You stick it all in a bowl except for the coconut, mix it up, and roll it in the coconut shreds. Voila! Snowman’s balls.

It was out of season, though, and not as easy to make as the spiced bananas, offered to me courtesy of the website “Sancho’s Disturbing Recipes of the Eerie Past.” To prepare these, one peels a banana and places it in double-thickness heavy-duty aluminum foil. Then, one brushes it with lemon juice, sprinkles it generously with brown sugar, dusts it with cinnamon or nutmeg, and dots it with margarine. Finally, the tin foil is puckered tightly around this tropical surprise, which is then placed on the grill for seven to eight minutes. It sounded delicious and looked completely phallic, especially, I imagined, when served with hot dogs, which was going to be my recommendation. There’s nothing to promote family togetherness like a whole plateful of penis-shaped food. Maybe next week I would pay homage to a different body part in my recipe column.

Recipe downloaded and e-mailed to Ron, I pretended to dust and tried to keep my mind busy. Fortunately, the library crowd began to pick up after lunchtime. There was a lot of talk about the people arriving in town to search for the black box the
Star Tribune
had planted. Apparently, a team of professional divers was camping at Glendalough State Park, and one woman said she heard Channel 5 out of Alexandria was going to run a story on the contest on tonight’s newscast.

I had given up on finding the box the
Star Tribune
had planted as soon as I realized the real diamonds were still around. Having a redneck poop in my tub had also reprioritized my life for the moment. Regardless, it was kind of exciting to think that someone was going to find the box and that we’d have some cosmopolitan and energetic people in Battle Lake.

I was surprised that I was feeling slightly territorial, and it wasn’t just because I was worried the
Star Tribune
was going to scoop me again. I wanted a local to find the box, and I wanted the town to put on a nice face for the world. There really were a lot of good people living in Battle Lake, and I didn’t want strangers making fun of them. That was my job.