Knee High by the 4th of July (18 page)

Mrs. Berns was only
too happy to open and run the library by herself. “Kennie and I need to meet, anyhow.”

That stopped me cold. “What’re you and Kennie meeting about?” The two normally didn’t get along well, except when they believed a profit was at stake. Their last joint venture was old-lady beauty contests, which had developed a strong niche market but never took off like they had dreamed. I didn’t want them to be dreaming their sordid entrepreneurial dreams in my library.

She shuffled away from me. “Never you mind.”

I followed her. “Are you two going to start another business?”

“We’re just going to hang out and talk.”

“But you don’t like Kennie.”

Mrs. Berns cackled. “I didn’t like my last husband, either, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying his company, if you know what I mean. Now stop worrying and go save your boy.”

“OK, but remember, if anything happens to the library, we’re both out of work.”

She gave me a curt German “Ach!” and sent me on my way. My first stop was the Battle Lake Motel, where I was grateful to see Dolly’s black Honda still parked. The rain must have kept her inside. I pulled my car into Halvorson Park and debated whether to knock on her door and just straight up ask her what was going on or to hide in the rain and follow her when she finally left. I decided on subterfuge, and settled in for a wait. About forty-five minutes passed, and the inside of my windshield was becoming foggy. It was raining too hard to leave the windows down, so I started my car and turned on the defrost. I fiddled with my knob until I tuned in 92.3, the classic rock station out of Alexandria. Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks” blues-rocked over the airwaves, and I took it as a good sign.

Shortly after that, I saw the doorknob on room number 7 jiggle, and Dolly’s head popped out and then back in. When she emerged a minute later, she carried an aqua-blue umbrella. She dashed through the downpour into her car, too engrossed in staying dry to notice if she was being watched or followed.

When Dolly pulled out and drove past Halvorson Park, I let one car slip between us before following. As far as I knew, she didn’t know what my car looked like, but better safe than sorry. She was heading through town, and the traffic was light, likely due to the storm. She stopped at the intersection of 78 and 210, and kept driving south on 78. When she turned east shortly after 78 briefly divided into double-lane, I wondered where she was headed. If she was returning to Wisconsin, this wasn’t the quickest way to 94. This back road offered only a Bible camp, Inspiration Peak, and farms.

I turned left to follow Dolly, and my radio lost its signal. I fiddled with static before the entire mechanism bopped out and began screeching. This happened often in my little Toyota, particularly when it rained. I punched the volume button off and sniffed in the wet green of the Minnesota grassland jungle. To the south of the road was a herd of wet and grazing buffalo, and to the north were rolling hills dotted with sumac and prairie grass. The bucolic scenery was all covered in sheets of wet gray, the rain falling so fast that it ran downhill instead of being absorbed by the parched ground.

I was getting relaxed following Dolly, and suddenly, as I crested the last hill before the Peak, the supper club nestled at the base of Inspiration Peak, she was out of sight. She must have turned left on the gravel road right before the Peak because the blacktop road stretched straight and curving to the right was empty. I pulled into the dinner club’s parking lot and considered my options. If I followed the gravel, I could either drive straight, past farmhouses, or turn right, up to the Inspiration Peak parking lot.

I had been to Inspiration Peak a few times before, mostly in the fall when the leaves were a blazing quilt of reds, golds, and oranges. At 1,750 feet, about 400 feet above the surrounding landscape, Inspiration Peak was the highest point in Otter Tail County and the third highest point in all of Minnesota. The rumor was that Sinclair Lewis wrote some of his social criticism there, and that he had named this highest summit in the glacially carved Leaf Hills. It was a gut-busting straight-up hike to the top of the Peak but worth every ragged breath. You could see nearly thirty miles in every direction on a clear day.

Was it possible Dolly was just out here for some sightseeing and hiking? Unlikely, given the rain. Still, I might as well check out the dead-end parking lot at the base of the Peak so I could rule out her having taken that route. I swung a right, heading up the paved driveway, and wasn’t surprised that the parking lot was empty. I looped around to head back down the hill when a darker shape in the woods off to my right caught my eye. I rolled down my window and squinted through the rain, making out what appeared to be a hatchback pulled up off the road and under an enormous sheltering pine. It was Dolly’s car. What was she doing at Inspiration Peak during a rain shower?

Shit. I was going to have to get out and see what was up. In the spirit of staying undercover, I drove my car the half mile to the Peak Supper Club’s deserted parking lot, left my Toyota behind the dumpster, grabbed my flashlight, and dragged my miserable butt out into the rain. The downpour had tapered off to a steady shower, and at least it was warm, but it’s never fun to be wet in clothes. At least Dolly would be easy to follow in the mud, I consoled myself glumly as I sloshed along. I backtracked to her car and was unsurprised to find it empty. Fresh hiking boot tracks, filling up softly with rain under the protection of the hardwoods, led off trail and into the woods.

The oaks and pine kept the worst of the rain off of me, but the musty smell of wet leaves and pine needles clung to me. It wasn’t long before I felt a crawling sensation at the back of my neck—a woodtick, looking for room and board. I pulled it out of my shirt and squished its rubbery body with my thumbnail before flinging it into the woods. It was all over now. I had woodtick fever, head to toe, inside and out. Every branch brushing against my skin, every raindrop trickling down my naked arm, every tingle in my scalp was a hungry woodtick looking to plunge its fangs into my flesh and grow corpulent, blue-gray and lethargic, like a vampiric blueberry dangling from my defenseless body. Ugh. I was so caught up in my paranoia that I didn’t notice the yellow sign warning me that I was leaving state park grounds.

I also didn’t notice that the landscape was changing from hardwoods and some pine, to pine and some scrub, to marsh fern and fringed loosestrife—native swamp plants. I was heading into uncertain ground, and it wasn’t until my feet made a sucking noise as I pulled them up for a step that I truly looked around. Dolly’s hiking boot trail was still in front of me, though harder to follow now that the trees were no longer protecting it from the rain. And I was definitely entering a swamp. I could tell by the lay of the land and by the boggy, canned-fish smell in the air. Behind me was the Inspiration Peak parking lot, now nearly a mile back. In front of me was my one chance to free Johnny. I had no choice but to continue, and to add leech fever to my list of worries.

The rain was finally easing off, and I cocked my ear to listen for any sign of Dolly stopping or backtracking on me. Nothing but the soft sound of rain and some far-off thunder. I plodded gingerly forward, putting my sandal-shod feet on fallen sticks where possible and sinking into the muck where it wasn’t. I took solace in the fact that Dolly didn’t seem to be having any better time of it than me, judging by her footprints. A half-mile later, I was through the swamp and back into the relative comfort of emerald-green prairie grass and shoulder-height red sumac. That is where I lost the trail.

I searched frantically, starting at the last footprint and working outward in concentric circles. When I started hitting the swamp again on the far side of the circle, I began to worry. I strode away from the swamp and to the highest hill in front of me, careful to stick close to the ground and make as little noise as possible. From my poor excuse for a perch, I could see an abandoned farmstead in front of me and Inspiration Peak looming behind me. I didn’t see any movement in the farmstead, but it was worth a look-see since I had come this far.

I made my way carefully toward the sagging barn, its red paint faded to a rusty brown. The back of the barn was facing me, a tired silo on one side and on the other, an abandoned farmhouse, its front windows years ago shattered by some teens, undoubtedly, or maybe a drunken Sinclair Lewis. Some proud oaks surrounded the old structures, but here were no other buildings. A dirt road, churned up and hazardous from the rain, led away from the buildings. From this distance, I couldn’t tell if the road had been used recently.

I was near the abandoned farmstead, sticking close to the ground and behind sumac shrubs, when I spotted movement. It was Dolly, leaving the house. The entry was doorless, so she simply walked through the opening and toward the barn. She strode briskly, confidently, not like she was exploring but rather like she was finishing up business.

I studied the short distance between the barn and me. The only cover left was prairie grass, but thankfully, there were no windows on the backside. As if on jungle patrol, I made a quiet dash toward the barn and reached the rear without seeing anyone else move. I dropped to all fours, my bare knees soaking up mud and moisture from the drenched ground, and crawled to the side of the building. I couldn’t hear any human movement, and so I hugged the ground tighter and wormed my way along the side, meaning to peek at the front.

I continued, unmolested, until I made out the soft murmurings of voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clearly a man and a woman talking, and they sounded angry. I risked poking my head around the front and saw that the entire face of the barn was exposed, the sliding door having fallen or been taken off its roller long ago. I noticed that second. What I noticed first was the two huge, sandal-clad feet sticking out of the front of the barn. Twenty-eight-foot, fiberglass-Norse-warrior big.

It was Big Ole,
and he was in pieces. Did Dolly have Chief Wenonga here, too? I tried to peek around at the silo, hoping to spy a shock of black hair poking over the top that I had maybe missed before. I didn’t get my head too far before Dolly came storming out, followed by Les.

“We agreed on $2,500,” Les was saying gruffly. I hadn’t gotten a good look at him before I ducked back around the corner, but I could hear rage in his voice.

“I said I’d pay you $2,500 in exchange for two very specific things. You’ve only delivered one.”

“One big one! Not one person saw me or my brother leave with that statue. That’s worth $2,500 alone!”

I bet Dolly was going to say something really important then, something like, “But you messed up getting Chief Wenonga and forced me to murder Liam Anderson, so you’re only getting $1,250 and be lucky you’re getting anything, and I never even kissed Johnny Leeson because he said he loves Mira James who’s for sure way better in bed than I could ever be,” but I would never know because at that unfortunate moment, a crow squawked behind me. An evil, murderous squawk that would have scared any normal human being out of her skin. I jumped out and landed plop on the ground near Dolly and Les. They both looked at me like I had just fallen out of a cow’s behind.

“Hi.” That’s all I could get out before Les lunged at me, loaded for bear. He had munitions strapped across his chest in an “X,” a knife belt around each skinny thigh, a stun gun at his hip (why hadn’t I brought my own blessed stun gun?), and a sword in a scabbard at his back. He landed on top of me and quickly spun my arms and his legs around in circles, twisting my body in some elaborate half-nelson-crossface-chickenwing arm lock, accompanied by high-pitched Bruce Lee karate sounds. When he had wrestled me into an ungainly position, confident that I could not move, he demanded, “How do you like that, missy?”

Too bad Les was not a gifted wrestler. He mostly had himself tangled and me by the wrists. A flick of each, and I stood up and he fell harmlessly off of me. “It was kind of gross, Les. So, you stole Big Ole?”

Air escaped Dolly in a frustrated whoof. “Jesus, Les. What was that? I thought you were going to hurt her. You need to be more careful.”

I eyeballed Dolly. “You don’t want him to hurt me? I could spill the beans about all this.” I waved my arm to encompass the sandaled feet and generous thighs of Big Ole, lying on his back in the shade of the barn. I also glanced quickly up his skirt—neuter, I knew it—but I think my peek was suave enough that Dolly didn’t notice.

“I don’t want anyone hurt. I never did.”

“Especially the Jains?”

Dolly’s sea-green eyes narrowed. She was mud-up-to-her-knees, her sodden strawberry blonde hair was escaping her ponytail and plastering itself to her cheeks, and her hands were on her hips so tight I thought they might leave bruises. “Especially the Jains. You know about the statue in India?”

“I only have theories. The one thing I can tell you for sure, though, is that Johnny Leeson is in jail for something he didn’t do.”

“What?”

“Johnny was arrested yesterday. A dead body was found at his cabin on Silver Lake, some guy from Wisconsin named Liam Anderson. Sound familiar?”

“No.” Dolly said this with genuine surprise in her voice, followed by a wave of concern on her face. “They think Johnny killed him?”

“They do. And this Liam Anderson is missing a chunk of his scalp, a chunk that matches the hairy mess found at the base of Chief Wenonga’s statue. Whoever killed Liam Anderson probably also stole the Chief, and it follows that whoever stole the Chief, also stole Big Ole.”

“See!” Les exploded. “I told you we shouldn’t take Ole so close to Wenonga disappearing! You said no one would connect the two, that the police wouldn’t be involved. Crazy woman. Crazy Indian-lovin’ woman.”

“Calm down.”

“You two took Ole, but not Wenonga?” That would be like breaking into a chocolate store and only taking the money. “Dolly, you know Les has been following you since you got to town, don’t you?”

Dolly’s hands left her hips and hung at her sides. She suddenly looked very, very tired. “Not me. Brando. I hired him to follow Brando and get enough information to pin the Chief’s disappearance on him.” At this point, she glared at Les. “He didn’t get me anything.”

This was why Les hadn’t earned his full $2,500—he had snatched Big Ole but hadn’t dug up any information on Brando. It made sense. The two times I had seen Les skulking around in the shadows, I had assumed he was following Dolly, but Brando was at both locations both times. “Why do you think Brando stole Wenonga?”

“Not think. Know.” Dolly shook her head with resignation, swiping her hair off her face and tucking it back into her ponytail. A reluctant smile played at the corners of her generous mouth. “You’re quite the snoop, you know that?”

I shook my head. “I prefer to think of myself as curious. Johnny isn’t really involved in this, is he? If you tell me what’s going on, I can help to get him out of jail.”

Dolly appeared to weigh her options before she began talking. Her speech was fast, too fast to take notes if we had been in class. “I was in Shatrunjaya Hills, India, last semester, leading a study abroad class. While there, I got involved with a group fighting the corporate invasion of the country. McDonald’s was the obvious face of this rampant capitalism, and that’s where we concentrated our energies. It was small-time civil disobedience at first—cutting off the arms of Ronald McDonald, spray-painting anticorporate messages on the side of the corporate offices, staging protests outside the front doors of the restaurant while dressed as mad cows.

“Then, someone in our group blew up a McDonald’s. No one was hurt, but I realized that it had gone too far. I packed up and was getting ready to leave when I heard about the Gandhi statue. I had been passing it every day on my way to class, and one day, it just fell over. It hurt some people, Jains on their pilgrimage, but it seemed like an accident. That is, until a local investigation revealed that the statue was structurally unsound. It was only a matter of time until it fell. That’s when Brando flew onto the scene, greasing palms and swishing away with the evidence before any charges could be pressed. The court costs would have put him under.”

“Did you and he meet there?”

“No. And it was just coincidence I ended up hired in Stevens Point, where Fibertastic Enterprises is housed. But once that fell in my lap, I knew it was karma. It was up to me to right the wrongs that had been done by Brando Erikkson’s company in India. I just didn’t know how, at first.”

I shook my head knowingly. “And you came up with the plan to humiliate Brando by stealing his statues?”

“Humiliate him? Wouldn’t that be rather childish? No, after researching, I found out that the Gandhi statue, the Big Ole statue, and the Chief Wenonga statue were all made from the same mold. It followed that all three had the same structural deficiencies, and if I could prove that, I could prove that the Gandhi statue falling wasn’t an accident. Brando would be forced to pay up.”

“Huhn?” Her car had passed mine about two sentences back. “How could they all three be made from the same mold? Big Ole is at least five feet taller than Chief Wenonga.”

“It’s all in the legs, sweetie. See for yourself.”

She led me back to Big Ole and showed me where extra length had been added to his calves and thighs. I had always thought it was the skirt that made his legs look unnaturally long, but it had been part of the design. I remembered Brando telling me in the coffee shop that oftentimes in his business one mold was reused, with minor design changes to differentiate one statue from another. And that explained the strange familiarity I had felt when looking at pictures of the Big Ole and Mahatma Gandhi statues. They were Wenonga’s brothers, man. “So why did you steal Big Ole? Why not just get some engineer to check him out?”

“That was the original plan, to get an engineering professor from UW–Stevens Point to examine Chief Wenonga. Then he was stolen. I had a hunch it was Brando, and if I let him get Big Ole, there would go any chance of me connecting him to the crime in India. So, I quickly rearranged my plans and paid Mr. Militia here to borrow Big Ole for me until the professor could come and check him out. He’s supposed to meet me here today.”

I felt dizzy and realized I still had my hand on Big Ole’s thigh. So much information to digest. I went back to the beginning. “You said you think Brando stole Chief Wenonga.”

“I know he did. I just don’t know how to prove it. My best guess is that this Liam Anderson was helping him, but that he has no traceable connections to Brando, and was the only witness to Brando’s plan. That man is devious.”

I agreed. I was falling for her story, lock, stock, and barrel, when a realization slapped me across the face like an angry girl. “You slept with Brando. I saw him leaving your motel room the night before last. Les saw it too.”

Dolly’s cheeks reddened. “I was desperate for information. I figured it’d be easier to sleep with him and find out what he knew than steal Big Ole out of Alexandria. I ended up having to do both.”

There, but for the grace of God, go I. I could hardly judge the woman, given the loin-rubbing I had done with Brando last night. Speaking of … I couldn’t help myself. “Was he good?”

Dolly nodded ruefully, her green eyes bright with memory. “I’m sorry to say he was fantastic. A truly delicious lover.”

Fuckin’ A.

“But watch out. He seems stupid and pretty, but he’s dangerous. Vindictive, and smart as a snake. Good luck connecting him to any of this. That’s why I had to steal Big Ole. I don’t know how you’re going to get Johnny out of jail.”

“Dolly?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you sleep with Johnny, too?”

At this, she laughed. “I wish. No, all he wanted to do was talk about Stevens Point and my teaching. At first, I was flattered, but then it got kind of boring.”

“So why did you go to his cabin?”

“How’d you know I was out at his cabin?” Dolly eyed Les suspiciously, maybe wondering if he was working both sides.

“I saw you leaving,” I lied.

“Saturday night, after the fireworks? Yeah, I thought I would give it one last shot. Figured I’d try the old, ‘sneak into his bed’ trick. When I got there, though, the door looked broken in and Johnny’s car was gone. I left.”

That old “sneak into his bed” trick
. I could scarcely talk to a man I had a crush on, let alone sneak into his bed. You’d think a quality like that would have bred itself out over a generation or two, but here I was. “Saturday night was the only night you were there?”

“Yes. I haven’t seen Johnny since.”

That squared with what I knew. Johnny said he had left town after the fireworks, and there would have been no reason for him to go back to his cabin before he did. “What if I just go to the police and tell them what you told me about the statue?”

“I intend to go myself, as soon as my colleague comes to examine Big Ole. I’ll nail Brando for India, that I’m sure of. As far as connecting him to Wenonga and dead Mr. Anderson, I’m afraid that will only ever be speculation, unless you get some divine inspiration. Brando is thorough, he’s smart, and he doesn’t leave a trail.”

That wasn’t good enough. I needed to get Johnny out of jail, the sooner the better. “When’s your engineering professor coming?”

“Within the hour. He’s got a Jeep, so he should be able to drive instead of walk. You’re welcome to stay and see what he finds.”

“No, I need to find some way to tie all this to Brando. Let me know when he gets busted for the Gandhi statue, though, won’t you? I’d love to be there.”

Dolly winked at me. “It’s a date.”

I trudged back the way I came, smarter but no happier. Even the rainbow that I glimpsed through the tops of the glistening pine trees did nothing to lift my spirits. When I made it back to my car, I was hot, wet, and dotted with mosquito bites. I motored back to Battle Lake, so lost in my internal dark cloud that I didn’t notice I was on a strange gravel road. I decided to keep going forward—all gravel in Minnesota leads to blacktop eventually—and that’s how I happened upon the enormous Virgin Mary on the side of the road.

It was another statue, twenty or so feet tall, and it had a sign in front that read “Our Lady of the Hills.” I parked my car at the side of the road and got out, half-perturbed (how many frickin’ gigantic statues does one county need?) and half-enraptured. The statue was beautiful. Her face was peaceful, and her straight brown hair and long blue robes blended nicely with the green pines she was tucked among. I walked closer and reached a locked box for offerings. This I passed and continued to her feet.