08 - December Dread (14 page)

“We go into the shop, order some coffee, find a seat, and watch for a man fitting David’s description to enter at the appointed time.”

“In that case, I brought you this.” She yanked a blonde wig out of her purse. I almost drove off the road when I saw it. “I borrowed your mom’s car and drove to the costume store in St. Cloud. You don’t want him to confuse you with brunette Veronica.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m an inside-out Dolly Parton, either. I’m not wearing that.”

“I thought you’d say that. That’s why I brought this.” She yanked another mass of hair out of her purse.

I didn’t want to look, but the sleek black bob caught my eye. It had sharp-cut bangs and was very Louise Brooks. I yanked my eyes back onto the road. “You could have put it into a bag. It’s got a gum wrapper stuck in it.”

“Thought you’d love it. I’ll wear the blonde one, then.”

I shook my head as I pulled into the coffee shop’s parking lot. “We’re going to the Fatted Caf, not Mardi Gras. We can’t both wear a wig.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll pull my hat on over it. I’ll appear very tasteful.”

I was doubtful. That misgiving was exacerbated after she yanked a makeup kit out of her bottomless purse and started applying blue eye shadow. Ten minutes later, after she’d caked on her makeup and pulled on her hat, she looked more like Madame, the puppet from
Solid Gold
, than tasteful, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I, however, felt kinda sexy spy-lady in my wig. I hated to admit it, but I also felt a tiny bit like a real PI going undercover.

“Ready,” she said.

“Please, after you.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Do you think the French accent is a little much?” I asked, getting out of the car.

She glared at me over the roof of the Toyota, her cheeks bright with blusher. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

“Fine.” I held the front door for her and then led the way to the counter. The rich smell of roasted coffee and fresh-baked rolls was heavenly. It reminded me of the Fortune Café back in Battle Lake, a charming coffee shop, restaurant, and all around hang-out owned by my friends, Sid and Nancy. God, I missed them and their normalcy right about now.

The Fatted Caf was packed with the lunch crowd, but it seemed to be mostly a takeaway joint. Three of the seven tables were open. I was surprised at how few stares we garnered. Was everyone here sight-impaired, or just polite?

“What do you want?” I asked Mrs. Berns when we reached the counter.

“Black coffee with a shot of Bailey’s.”

The barista appeared concerned, but I translated. “Two mochas, please, one soy and one regular. Medium. We’ll take a couple of those chocolate chip scones as well.” I reached into my purse for my second-to-last twenty. I had a credit card, too, but I didn’t want to bust into that. Credit was a slippery slope.

I was getting my change when Mrs. Berns tugged on my sleeve. “Ver-oay ere-they,” she said.

“Hold on. I’m paying.”

“Ver-oay ere-they!”

I pocketed my change and gave Mrs. Berns my full attention. “Are you stroking?”

She’d tugged a large swath of plastic blonde tresses in front of her face, her eyes gazing demurely through the hair at one of the occupied tables. A blue-eyed blonde guy in his late 30s or early 40s was drinking a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. When the door opened, he’d glance up before returning to his paper. “David?” I whispered. I needn’t have bothered. The Billie Holiday pouring out of the speakers contained each conversation in a pocket.

She nodded. “I ink-thay o-say.”

“I preferred the French accent to pig Latin, and I’m not sure why you’re hiding behind your hair. He doesn’t know us.”

“Humph.” She pulled back her locks and reached for the coffee and scones we’d just been handed. She took a deep gulp and smiled with satisfaction. “Perfect. Now come on.”

We threaded our way through a pack of people waiting for their to-go food and sat at the open table next to David. He was shorter than his profile had promised, and a little thicker around the middle. His face was incredibly average, hard to pick out of a crowd or to find a feature to comment on. If he were a car, I’d always lose him in the parking lot. “Lovely day,” Mrs. Berns said to him.

He glanced over, startled. He smiled a slow, open grin. “Yes, ma’am. It is.”

I didn’t know what to make of the Southern accent. It sounded authentic, far more appropriate than Mrs. Berns’ French one. I tipped my head when he said hello to me. “You’re not from around here?” I asked.

“Nope. Moved here five years ago from Alabama. The only thing I miss is the weather.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you don’t mind me saying, you two don’t look like you’re from around here either.”

I snorted, and Mrs. Berns kicked me from under the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My sister and I have lived in the area our whole lives.”

I glanced over my shoulder to see who she was referring to when I realized it was me. I kicked her back. “She doesn’t mean we’ve lived in River Grove our whole lives,” I said. “We’re actually from Paynesville, just passing through on our way to Fargo. Do you travel a lot?”

He folded his paper to give us his full attention. “I’m afraid not. Moved up here from Alabama with my wife. She passed away two years ago. Cancer. I haven’t had the heart to do much other than go to work and go home. Not until recently, anyways.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. He shrugged in that way that people do when they have no answer but don’t want to be rude. I suddenly felt like a jerk for wasting his time.

“What is it you do?” Mrs. Berns asked.

He smiled again. “Dentist. One of two in town.”

I restrained myself from making a face. I realized dentistry was an honorable profession, but still, spending your day cleaning people’s mouths? Gross. “So, do you have big Christmas plans?”

“Thought I’d volunteer at the local shelter. That’s what I did last year. Gives me a rush to hand out food.”

Mrs. Berns reached over and pinched him, hard. He pulled back, his expression one of shock. “What was that for?”

“Just checkin’ if you were real. Come on, Thelma. We’ve got that meeting to get to.”

“Like I said, I’m so sorry,” I told him, as she strode out the front door, stuffing what was left of our scones into our paper sack. “I hope you have a happy holiday season.”

He gave a polite nod but overall looked bewildered. I couldn’t blame him one bit.

“Really?” I asked, once I was outside. “You have to pinch the widower? And since when am I Thelma?”

“You know the rules. I’m always Louise. As to the first question, I wasn’t buying a thing he said.”

“You’re not serious.” I unlocked my car door and slid over to unlock hers. “A dead wife? That couldn’t have all been a lie. Could it?”

“You don’t live as long as I have without recognizing a pile of horseshit when you see it.”

“Serial killer-level horseshit?”

“Naw. Trying-to-get-laid-level buffalo chips. Bet it works, too.”

I went over the entire interaction in my head. Even on replay he struck me as genuine. Just to be safe, we drove out of the parking lot and across the street and waited. David left 20 minutes later, a ski cap on his head and a disappointed expression on his face. He got into a late-model silver Buick Enclave. We followed him down the main drag, took a left on Ivy Street, and watched as he pulled into the “Reserved for Dentist” space in the lot next to the Dr. David Fleece Dentistry Office. I crossed him off my mental suspect list at the same time I slid off my wig. This trip had been a waste of time, minus the delicious coffee and scones, and we now had a funeral to attend.

Mrs. Berns and I made it to St. Augustine Church only moments before the service began. The parking lot was crowded, including a CNN van and two local news vans. We hurried past them and into the church, choosing one of the last seats in the rear pew of the crowded chapel. Natalie’s family all spoke, sharing funny stories of her as a child, reminiscing on her dreams, speaking in trembling voices about how much they would miss her. The most painful moment was when her mom rose, walked over to her daughter’s casket, and sang “Amazing Grace” in a voice so raw and pure that it sounded like crystal shattering. She paused at the end of her song, her dry eyes sadder than a thousand tears.

“She was my baby. I carried her, I nursed her, I put band-aids on her knees when she fell. I went with her to buy her first formal dress, I curled her hair for prom, and I had a dream of watching her get married someday. Her father and I loved her every second of her life, and I hope she finds peace in God’s arms, because there will never be peace for me again on this earth.”

The church was silent. The smell of incense and hothouse funeral flowers hung in the air. Mrs. Garcia’s husband rushed to her side. He was a small man, but he nearly carried her back to her seat. Her tears started then. It must have taken immense self-control to hold herself together long enough to pay tribute to her daughter. Her wracking sobs set off the rest of us. Even Mrs. Berns cried, which made her makeup run and somehow added to the effect of the wig she hadn’t yet removed.

She and I didn’t follow the hearse and mourners to the cemetery, though my mom did. It felt too intimate. Sixth grade was a long time ago, and I didn’t want to take space from her closest friends and family. Or, as Mrs. Berns pointed out, I was a coward who didn’t want to visit the same cemetery where my dad was buried. Both reasons were equally true, and they all led back to the same path: Mrs. Berns and me heading to an early dinner with Sharpie Trevino, a heightened sense of resolve in our hearts.

Nineteen

“Don’t stare.”

“That’s what staring’s for.”

She had a point. Sharpie Trevino had hopped up and stared hopefully at me and Mrs. Berns upon our arrival but sat down, disappointed, when we removed our winter caps and scarves to reveal short black and long blonde hair. We’d gotten a good look at him, though. From head on, he was as peculiar a creature as I’d ever laid eyes on. He stood only a few inches taller than me but weighed about the same. I’d put him in his 50s, maybe a little younger for the lack of gray in his wildly spiky, dark brown hair. Judging by his coloring and features, I’d also venture a guess he was of Italian and hamster descent, heavy on the hamster. The only thing he was missing was a jogging wheel and a set of whiskers.

“Still,” I said. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.” Big words for Cagney and Lacey, back in their wigs and trying to blend in at Tammy’s Tavern, a classic Midwest bar-restaurant. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and stuffed animals and bug-eyed fish decorated the top third of all the walls. In the far corner, a gas fireplace gave off a soothing glow underneath the watchful eyes of a 12-point buck. Despite the flickering candles at every table, the bar-restaurant was dim, and an unexpected hazy winter storm was blowing in, making it preternaturally dark outside.

The hostess led us to a table about fifteen feet over from Sharpie Trevino, who continued to jump up every time the front door opened. Mrs. Berns couldn’t drag her stare off of him. “He’s got creepy ginkgo biloba eyes.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means he’s got something to hide, that’s what.” She turned her attention to the laminated menu. “Are you ordering deep fried mushrooms? If you are, I want some.”

“How can you think about food?”

“Last time I checked, we were in a restaurant.”

“With a possible killer, and after just leaving the funeral of one of his victims.”

She swatted me with her menu. “I know that. That’s why we’re here! Now get the mushrooms, and I’ll order the waffle fries with cheese, and we’ll share.” She pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and blew her nose, then stuffed the tissue back in. Afterward, she fluffed her acrylic wig and applied another coat of Coral Kiss lipstick a little outside the lines.

“I believe I am witnessing the birth of a cat lady.”

She ignored me. In fact, she didn’t say another word until the waitress came to take our order. Mrs. Berns tacked two draft beers onto it, and I didn’t complain.

“What do we do with Sharpie?” I asked, after the waitress left. Mrs. Berns didn’t respond. “One of us could strike up a conversation with him.” Still nothing. I sighed deeply. “I’m sorry I called you a cat lady. And you have my permission to execute Plan B.”

The “B” stood for “Boobs.” Mrs. Berns, operating on the theory that “no man is gonna be attracted to something he can’t see,” had tried to convince me on the whole drive here that she be allowed to roll up her boobs to create cleavage and then hit on Sharpie. She claimed her lovely ladies had hypnotized men before. Once she had Sharpie ensorcelled, she’d casually find out where he’d spent Sunday night, the evening Natalie was murdered. I’d initially told her that her Plan B was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard of, at which point she told me fine, we could go ahead and stick with Plan A, with the “A” standing for “Ass, Mira, you are one.”

Mrs. Berns clapped her hands together with glee. “Now you’re cooking with Crisco! Hold on to your hat, ’cuz I’ll be right back.”