November Hunt (3 page)

Mrs. Berns arched her eyebrow at me.
See
,
some people choose not to be nosy
, it said. I aimed my own eyebrow back.
Women who lie in glass cougar dens shouldn't throw stones
, it said.

Hallie sniffled, and we both returned our attention to her. “If I'd known it was the last time I'd have seen my dad, I'd have gone in there. I'd have hugged him and asked what they were fighting about.”

Her words stacked a heavy load on my back. In that moment, I recognized what Hallie was doing and why we were here. She wanted to change the outcome of this story. I'd attempted the same thing when I'd lost my own dad. When someone who is sewn tightly into the fabric of your life dies unexpectedly, you become desperate to rewrite history, to “what if” every moment in the space-time continuum until you're crazy with misery and guilt. My father had been a sloppy drunk who'd killed himself and two people in another car in a head-on collision. My high school had somehow acquired his crushed Chevy Impala and displayed it on the campus as a cautionary tale. I was forced to walk past it every day of my senior year, and still, given all that he'd put me through, I'd tried to paint him as a misunderstood hero that I could have saved. I imagined it was a hundred times worse if your dad had been a decent person. Best to reset her compass quick and clean.

“Look,” I said gently. “I know it can be hard to lose someone you care about, but Clive and your dad were good friends. People who know each other well fight, and then they make up. I'm sure that's what you heard—friends having a meaningless argument. It couldn't have been that bad if they went hunting together afterward, right?”

She gripped her mug like it held her spare heart, and rose to her feet, her voice trembling. “But that's it, don't you see? My dad and Clive have been hunting together for decades. They were pros. Clive knew his way around a gun better than his own hand. There's no way he'd accidentally shoot my dad. No way. It had to be on purpose.”

“But why?”

She fell back into the chair like a popped balloon. “That's what I need you to find out.”

Mrs. Berns downed her brandy in a swallow and strode over to Hallie. She put her arm around her. “You'll have to accept that it may have been an accident, dear. But if it was murder, our Mira here will figure it out.”

“What?”

She glared at me over her shoulder. “You might want to get either your hearing or your vocabulary checked. You seem to not be processing things too well.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I already told Hallie you'd look into it. I'd do it myself if I wasn't on my way to Sedona.”
C-doe-na
. She returned to her place next to me on the couch and twisted the vulnerable skin underneath my arm.

“Ouch!” I swatted at her hand. “I'm not a real detective. I'm not even a real librarian.”

“Now, now. You're a real dick deep down, even if you don't yet have your license.” Mrs. Berns' eyes glistened. “Take your future by
the reins. Just last week you were telling me you need to get a
million hours of apprentice work in before you can be licensed. Hallie already spoke with her lawyer, and he said he'd hire you to investigate this. You get paid, Hallie gets help, and you get closer to being licensed.”

Hallie nodded vigorously.

I sighed. This whole plan would all make perfect sense in a loony bin. I looked at Hallie square. “Hallie, I'm an English grad school drop-out who was promoted to head librarian when her boss disappeared. Everything I know about investigating murders has come from trying to save my skin or reading a book. You sure you wouldn't rather hire a professional?”

Hallie sat forward, speaking earnestly. “The closest private investigator is in Fargo. He would stand out like a sore thumb
around here. I need someone who can ask questions without people being suspicious. I'm now the owner of Battle Sacks, and I have too many employees I'm responsible for. I can't afford any more negative publicity. Think how it already looks, the owner of an outdoor supply company dying in a hunting accident.”

She had a point, and the more sense she and Mrs. Berns made, the less I liked it. “I need to think about it.”

They let me off at that. We left a sad-eyed Hallie, and Mrs. Berns nagged me for not having heat the whole fourteen blocks to the nursing home. I made sure she made it to her room safely even though the stress of the day caught up with me and hung off my body like a hundred sand bags. I dragged myself back to my car and navigated the icy roads all the way to my mailbox, where I pulled out a stack of bills. I drove down the interminable driveway, plugged in my car, let out my dog, and called Jed to make certain he was safe. He was, and so apologetic that it was difficult to muster up anger. We made plans to get together later in the week.

I possessed barely enough energy to brush my teeth, but a letter on the top of the pile caught my attention. It was from an unfamiliar bank, and it looked official. It could be good news, right? Maybe I'd inherited. Or maybe I owed. I cranked the house's thermostat to 72 degrees and listened to the click and then hum of it kicking in. The letter stared at me. I brushed my teeth, let the dog back in, ran fresh water for both animals, peeled off my clothes, and hopped into bed.

Who was I kidding? I heaved myself up and went to the letter.

Dear Ms. Miranda James:

This letter is to inform you that your school loan deferment period ended on May 1st. We have had difficulty tracking down your most recent address; as a result, your account is in arrears. This is your last notification before a collection agency is …

I balled up the letter and tossed it toward the basket. It looked like I would be taking on Hallie's case after all.

Six

Two days later, after
I'd dropped Mrs. Berns off at the airport, I called Hallie to say I'd take the case. It was a funny, TV detective thing to say. I assured her that it was unlikely I'd uncover anything, that I might be wasting her time, and that there were easier ways to let go. She listened to it all without changing her mind, and set up a lunch appointment with me and her attorney.

We met over Tator Tot hotdish—special order vegetarian version for me—and dinner rolls at the Turtle Stew, Hallie still appearing shattered by the loss of her father. Her skin had a gray hue, and her hair and eyes were dull. It must have been shock that kept her buoyed the night of the funeral, because she appeared to have aged ten years since that evening. It broke my heart. She continued in her conviction that I take the case, and she didn't blink when
her attorney from the Litchfield Law Firm offered me a $500
retainer. I almost choked on my own spit when I saw the check, but I tried to play it cool. Possibly my wide eyes and muttered, “No way! That's a lot of cheddar!” gave me away, but then again, we're always harder on ourselves than the rest of the world is, right? The $500 wouldn't solve my money jam, but it'd put a nice dent in my back payments.

Hallie's lawyer informed me that I had complete freedom to handle the case any way I wanted, which made me realize, sadly, that I had no idea how to handle a case. Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to order
Private Investigating for Morons
for the library at the same time I'd contacted the Minnesota Private Detective and Protective Agent Services Board to look into the state licensure requirements. I vowed internally to rifle through that puppy after lunch. Surely there would be a numbered list outlining the steps to follow when cornering a killer. Even better would be a guide that explained how to convince a woman that her father had died in an accident rather than been murdered, while simultaneously unearthing $500 worth of information for her. I'd keep my fingers crossed. Amid the Turtle Stew's bustling noontime crowd, we finished our food and small talk before all three going back to work.

The library had been slow this time of year, especially these weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, even though I'd tried to make it an inviting place to visit. Right before she'd left for Sedona, Mrs. Berns had helped me to decorate the library's ceiling with snowflakes strung on paperclips and lavish twinkle lights around the doors, windows, and shelves. I loved Christmas lights, and it showed. There were now corners of the library where you could read by the tiny glittering bulbs alone. It made the whole space warm and cozy.

I reviewed my to-do list. I had the Saturday night Love-Your-Library fundraiser to prepare for, an annual after-hours event where the city paid for food and drink to thank our donors. Other than that, my schedule was clear beyond personning the front desk, shelving returned books, and helping the occasional patron stalwart enough to brave the screaming cold that had gripped the town like a thousand icy fishhooks. We were setting record lows, and most people didn't venture out unless they were forced, myself included. That left plenty of time to get caught up on my newspaper duties and flesh out a strategy for investigating Tom's death.

I figured I'd start with the easy stuff—the newspaper job. I
plunked myself down at the front desk computer and halfheartedly searched for recipes for my “Battle Lake Bites” column featured weekly in the
Battle Lake
Recall
. When Ron, owner and editor of the
Recall
, had first directed me to discover food representative of Battle Lake back in May, I'd passive aggressively sought out the strangest, Norwegianest recipes I could find, from deer pie to turducken. And readers couldn't get enough of it. Ron had requested that my recipe theme between Thanksgiving and Christmas be holiday-related, and if possible, centered on entertaining. He was hoping for dips and toothpick-in-a-weenie-type magic, I knew this, but I had to give the people what they wanted

My first hit on “weird holiday food” was scrapple, because what can go wrong when you start out cooking with a whole pig's head? Next was beaver tails, which I liked the sound of until I found out they were the Canadian version of elephant ears and included no actual beaver parts. A half an hour later and still nothing weird enough had jumped out at me.

Disheartened, I spent the rest of the afternoon tending to the rare library patron, reading my
Moron's Guide
and taking notes on surveillance and interrogation, and confirming that all was a go for Saturday's donor-appreciation event. By the end of the day, I had yet to come up with a plan for tackling Hallie's case. I wished Mrs. Berns was still around so I could bounce ideas off her, but I didn't want to interrupt her vacation.

Jed would work as a Mrs. Berns stand-in
, I thought, as I locked up the library and scurried to my car. I flicked on the portable propane fish house heater in my back seat and cracked the windows so I wouldn't suffocate. Mrs. Berns had a friend toss it in so she wouldn't be cold when I drove her to the Cities, and I'd buckled it in the back seat like a fat gray Buddha with a glowing red circle for a head, the whole unit roughly the size of a two-drawer filing cabinet. The heater was designed for a larger space, and even on its lowest setting, gave off enough heat to leave a tan. In fact, we'd had to roll the windows halfway down. By the time we'd pulled into the airport exit, Mrs. Berns was down to a puckered fire-engine red bra, her elastic-waisted slacks, and bare feet. I'd settled for rolling up my sleeves and gathering my hair in a ponytail. The heat was better than frosted windows and freezing fingers, though, and I'd talked Mrs. Berns' friend into letting me keep it until my car was fixed. Whenever that might be.

Once my windows were defrosted, I drove a few short blocks to Jed's new place. Battle Lake looked like a ghost town, with snow drifting across the road in place of tumbleweeds and not a sane person to be seen. The dusk-lit street lamps glowed oddly, the cold warping their light and giving it an underwater quality. It was eerie. I parked my car in front of the empty storefront Jed was now occupying and shot out. The subzero air smelled like steel, and the only sounds were the shriek of the wind and the repetitive echo of a loose binding whipping against the post office flagpole.

I ran to the front door of the shop, not bothering to knock. Fortunately, it was unlocked. It was a relief to put a door between myself and the keening weather. I unwrapped my scarf and breathed in the warm air. I'd managed to let go of any lingering peevishness toward Jed from the day I'd gotten stuck in his driveway. The thing about him is that he is as sweet as he is absent-minded, and it's impossible to stay mad at him for long. I hadn't spoken to him since that day, so this would be a nice opportunity to clear the air.

“Jed?” Immediately inside the door was a large, wood-floored room, empty except for a few tables off in a corner. Clanking and
h
ammering emanated from the back room. When he didn't answer,
I pounded the snow off my boots and headed off the welcome mat
and tow
ard the rear of the building. There I entered
a room that looked
like it had been an industrial kitchen at one time, but was now dominated by an enormous black, shed-shaped furnace. My first thought was that the witch in
Hansel and Gretel
would have loved it. My second thought was that I bet it'd keep a house mighty toasty. Jed was pounding on the back of the massive furnace, and another body was stuck inside, his legs sticking out like Santa's from a chimney.

“Mira!” Jed looked up from his work, grinning dopily. He was seven or so years younger than me, with the bearing and demeanor of a black Lab puppy, all skinny and full of barely suppressed wiggles. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and long nylon shorts. His curly dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the loose strands held off his face by a patterned handkerchief. “You made it!” He loped over to hug me as if we hadn't seen each other in years instead of weeks.

I couldn't resist smiling back. “Hey, Jed. Who're you cooking?” I pointed at the man in the oven.

“Ha! That's Monty. Monty, come on out and meet Mira.” He turned back to the furnace and tugged on the legs.

The man inside grunted and then crawled backward like a crab out of its shell. When he emerged, I recognized him immediately.

“My savior!”

“Hunh?” Jed said.

I held my hand out to Monty. He was sweaty but his clothes appeared clean. I'd expected whoever was in there to be covered in soot, so the furnace must be brand new. I noticed for the first time that he was a small man, lithe and only slightly taller than my 5'6". “This is the guy who picked me off the side of the road when I got stuck in your driveway. Thank you again.”

“Well, it is a small world,” he said, adjusting the same rainbow pompom cap he'd been wearing the other day. I saw close-cropped hair, brown shot with gray, before he yanked it back tight to his ears. “You must be Jed's friend Mira, then. Your car running okay?”

“Except for the heater.”

“Probably your thermostat,” they both said in unison.

I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. “What're you two up to?” I indicated the furnace and the exotic-looking equipment on two large tables in the middle of the room. Jed had a reputation for undertaking creative and financially irresponsible projects, like the canoe fleet he'd tried to carve from whole logs before giving up and constructing a Huckleberry Finn raft. He was a gifted handyman despite his goofiness. In fact, I'd heard he was a genius with machines, though a village idiot with money. I was pretty sure Mrs. Berns had offered that evaluation.

“Glassblowing!”

I walked around the stove. “Really?” I liked blown glass almost as much as I liked Christmas lights. “Here in Battle Lake?”

“Yup,” Jed said. “Monty is the expert. I'm renting the space, and the equipment is his. He's going to teach me!”

“Wow.” I glanced over at Monty, who was smiling proudly. “Where'd you learn to blow glass?”

“All over the world, but mostly Turkey.”

I stopped to study him. “How'd you end up in Battle Lake all the way from Turkey?”

“
Back
in Battle Lake,” he corrected me. “I'm from here originally. Left a long time ago. Guess you can't shake the home dirt off your feet for good, though, 'cuz here I am.” He scratched his head underneath the hat, making the pompom shake. “Came back for my father's funeral a few months back and never left. I figure I finally know what I want to do. If you'll excuse me.” He crawled back into the maw of the furnace, leaving me with a beaming Jed.

“This is the surprise you called about?”

“Yup. Monty is a master. He's teaching me everything he knows. We just got the furnace a couple days ago, and the rest of the supplies should be here before the end of the week. Battle Lake glass is going to be famous! Pretty cool, hunh?”

“Pretty cool,” I agreed. “But this is going to take a while to get off the ground. You still working odd jobs?”

He reached for a rag and wiped his fingers. “I s'pose I'll have to. I had a winter job lined up at Battle Sacks. Was going to be their line mechanic, but I lost it before I started. Got a call a few days ago saying it was no longer available.”

My heartbeat ratcheted up at the mention of Battle Sacks. “You heard Tom died, right?”

“Yeah, the hunting accident. My parents are going to be so bummed. Tom was a stand-up guy.”

“Did you get hired before or after he died?”

“Right before. And unhired right after. Nobody could tell me exactly why.”

“I'm sorry.” In my head, I was scrambling to see if the weirdness of that fit with Tom's death. Deep down, I didn't believe that Tom had been murdered, but I'd taken money from Hallie to look into it. I didn't want to admit that the cash had been a main motivator, but I knew I would not have taken the case otherwise. On the drive to the airport. I'd come straight out and asked Mrs. Berns if she'd really thought Tom had been murdered.

“It's hard to say. Hallie was right that Clive knows his way around a gun, but he also drank like a horse. The best hunter can make a mistake when he's got whiskey finger. Then again, it's hard enough to hit an animal when you're aiming at it, let alone a man by accident. I can't quite swallow that ‘a hunting accident' is the whole story here. Even if I'm wrong, if you take the case, you'll give Hallie the time and attention she needs to ease her into the idea of her dad being asleep with Jesus.”

“So you don't think this is a snipe hunt?”

“I think there's only one way to find out.”

He was right, unfortunately. Odds were better than good that Tom's death was accidental, but I'd been hired by Hallie to investigate, and I had to take her concerns seriously. And as luck would have it, here was Jed helping me out. “Say, if a person wanted to get a job at Battle Sacks, how would they go about it?”

“Maybe the newspaper?”

“Is that what you did?”

“No,” he said, sounding surprised. “I was just in the Fortune one day, fixing the espresso maker for Nancy. The HR lady from Battle Sacks was there eating lunch. She mentioned they'd need a new line mechanic soon and I should apply. It would have been the perfect job.”

“I'm sorry,” I repeated.

“No biggie. One door opens and another door closes.”

I was going to correct him but thought better of it. Now that I had serendipitously gotten an entrance into investigating the Tom Kicker case, I was itching to leave. “I should probably get home and feed Luna and Tiger Pop. They've been alone all day.”