08 - December Dread (17 page)

When I arrived at the coffee shop and yanked open the door, the deep, earthy smell of fresh-ground coffee beans washed over me. The aroma perked me up slightly. I ordered a tall black coffee, and the barista studied me oddly. I knew I was wearing my crazy eyes, but a night without sleep will do that to a person. I recognized her as the woman who had waited on Mrs. Berns and me yesterday. Maybe she was wondering where my wig was.

Agent Briggs and another guy, both in those well-tailored coats that looked perfect for a foggy summer day in Seattle but painfully thin for a Minnesota winter, sat in a far corner. I could feel their eyes on me, but I wasn’t handling this without coffee. I accepted the steaming mug and walked to their table.

“Ms. James?”

“Hi. Thanks for coming.”

“You said it was urgent.”

I suddenly felt awkward. They were both so official, wearing their suits like armor. I realized I hadn’t combed my hair or brushed my teeth yet. I ran a hand over my face, checking for crusty parts. “Mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest,” the other gentleman said, sliding over. He had skin
a shade lighter than my coffee, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. “I’m Agent Lee.”

“Mira James.” I misjudged the distance to the bench and dropped awkwardly, spilling coffee. Agent Lee offered me a napkin.

Agent Briggs’ phone buzzed. He looked at it, then shot me an impatient glance without answering it. “What can we do for you?”

He turned his attention out the window just as I started to answer. It was rude, but I was too tired to react. I explained our theory that the killer was tracking his victims through online dating sites, though I left Mrs. Berns out of it. I told him the orange begonia story we’d heard at the funeral to illustrate how we’d developed our hypothesis, and explained that I had set up a profile, discovered Sharpie Trevino and David Fleece, and set up a meeting with them. I slapped a copy of the dating print-outs we’d gathered, the men’s as well as the other women in River Grove with similarities to Natalie. I listed the facts I’d discovered about each man, including where and how I believed Sharpie had spent the previous evening, though I didn’t say how I’d gathered any of the information. I was feeling a little bit smug at the end of my lecture.

Briggs exchanged a look with Lee. They’d been silent up to this point, their faces impassive. “You tell ’em your real name when you met up with them?”

I shook my head. “No, and they didn’t know it was me who set up the profile or contacted them. We just happened to be in the same place at the same time, as far as they knew.” I sipped my coffee, feeling the first licks of doubt. Briggs had started clenching his jaw like he wanted to bust through his teeth. It was time I got to the point of the whole story, the reason I was sleeping in a hotel room with my mom, my friend, and my animals. “But last night, I received a threatening message.”

Briggs sat forward in his seat, his eyes narrowed. “What was the message?”

I drew a deep breath. “An orange begonia. Sent to the newspaper where I work in Battle Lake.”

The air was hushed and heavy for a moment, just like it gets right before a storm. The silence was shattered by Agent Briggs’ hearty and unexpected laughter. “A flower?”

I looked at him, shocked. I must not have explained myself clearly. “Not just a flower. An orange begonia. Don’t you see? Either Lynne, Sharpie, or David must be involved. Our—my—investigation into the online dating triggered them to send me a warning.”

Lee regarded me from behind an emotionless mask. “How would any of them know about the orange begonias sent five summers ago?”

“Lynne overheard the story at the funeral. I don’t know about Sharpie or David.” I flushed. I’d had the same questions myself, but Briggs’ laughter made me feel defensive. “How else do you explain orange begonias getting sent to me so soon after I first heard the story and set up an online profile?”

“Long-lost admirer?” Briggs asked. His voice was condescending.

I suddenly felt ashamed, a four-legged creature putting on airs. I’d left the hotel this morning knowing that the orange begonia meant something. Now, talking to these two, that certainty seemed childlike. My voice, when I spoke, was low. “Can you just check who’s bought orange begonias in the area, here or around Battle Lake, in the last couple days?”

Agent Briggs snorted. “This ain’t
CSI.
”

Lee glanced at his watch.

I curled into myself. “So you’re not going to do anything?”

“We appreciate your telling us about this,” Lee said. “I can assure you we follow all legitimate leads.”

He was trying to placate me, but his message was obvious:
you’ve wasted our time
.

Briggs grabbed his gloves and the sheaf of papers I’d set on the table. “In the meanwhile, don’t do anything else stupid, okay? No online dating, no meeting with men you think might be serial killers, don’t cross at a red light, all that good stuff. Got it?”

I slid out of the way so Agent Lee could exit the booth. I didn’t meet their eyes. I didn’t want them to see the shiny tears being held back by pride.

Twenty-four

“Assholes.” That was Mrs.
Berns’ verdict.

When I’d returned from my meeting with the agents, I’d found her waiting for me in the lobby of the Relax Inn. She’d said the room was too small with a cat and a dog and a mom and an old lady. She’d called up some friends in Battle Lake who had in turn hooked her up with some “inmates”—her word—at the downtown Paynesville Good Samaritan Nursing Home. She had plans to spend the day volunteering and visiting. I was fairly sure she’d have a full rebellion in swing by this afternoon, maybe even spring a couple of the spryer ones and take them up the street to Sir Falstaff’s for a bump. All she needed to enact her plan was a ride to the other side of town. After checking on my mom, who was on her way out the door for a quilting class, I loaded Mrs. Berns into my car and drove her to the nursing home, picking up our conversation where it had left off.

“Agent Lee had a good point,” I said grudgingly. “How would Sharpie Trevino or David know about the orange begonias from five summers ago?”

“You’re the brains of this operation. You figure that out. There’s some connection, you said it yourself. You just need to discover what it is. If you suss it out before Agents Poopyhead and Ballbrain, all the better.”

I felt a sudden surge of anger toward the agents as I pulled into the nursing home parking lot. Unfortunately, it was too late to do me any good. I tried to clamp it down before it affected the innocent. “Get out of my car. I’m going to be late for my PI class, and I still have to walk Luna.”

“Who suddenly peed in your corn flakes?” She gathered up her purse. “You’re making me feel rushed.”

“Well, you’re making me feel slowed,” I snapped.

A hurt look crossed her face.

“I’m sorry.” I dropped my head on my steering wheel. “They treated me like a child. I just felt so stupid, you know? I hate it when someone does that to me.”

She flicked the side of my head. It stung. “I’ve definitely seen you act stupid, but no one else can make you
feel
stupid. Trust me on that, and follow your instincts. They’ve always been good.”

I knew she was right, but I intended to wallow in feeling bad for a little while longer. “What time should I pick you up?”

“Five o’clock. That’ll give us time for a quick bite before our Toe Can Do class tonight.”

I didn’t have the energy to correct her, though I did accept her peck on the cheek before driving to Willmar. I arrived 20 minutes late for my fifth and final day of PI class. If I passed the cumulative test today, all that stood between me and my PI license was 5,960 hours of supervised investigating.

The only new topics Mr. Denny covered were writing a final case report and successful billing. The rest of the lecture was a review of everything we’d learned to date, which, as it happened, was a lot. We now knew the basics of managing and promoting a small business, finding cases, working with the police, surveillance, research, and investigative ethics. I was impressed with his organization and comprehensiveness as well as the amount of information a PI had to juggle on any given day.

The last hour of class found us in a computer lab where we completed a multiple choice and true-false test. I’m a fast reader, which makes me a fast tester, even when I’m fuzzy from lack of sleep. I completed all 50 questions in under 25 minutes, which left me the rest of the hour to research Lynne Bankowski, Sharpie Trevino, David Fleece, and the Candy Cane killings.

The bonus of researching someone with a name like Sharpie Trevino is that you can be certain every hit is the guy you’re looking for. He was actually a co-owner of Chi-town Candies, according to their website. I wondered why he was on the road. Surely, a subordinate could handle that level of marketing. Then again, if what he told Mrs. Berns was true, it would make sense for an owner to be directly involved in scoping out a new factory site. I found his permanent address in Elgin, Illinois. I couldn’t uncover any personal information about him, even after running his name through the paid database. No connections between Wisconsin and Sharpie existed, though he’d be hard-pressed to travel from Chicago to Minnesota without driving through the cheese state. I filed that information away and gave up on Sharpie for the moment.

David Fleece, DDS, showed up even more frequently online. The first hit was his current dental practice, the second the practice he’d left in Alabama three years earlier. He was also linked to his wife’s obituary. She had died two years ago, exactly as he’d said in the coffee shop. The numerous remaining hits all referred to his extensive volunteer work, including the Dentists Across Borders organization he’d started with his wife before she passed. The man was a saint, so much so that I’d be suspicious if I hadn’t gotten a good vibe from him other than the little self-scare I’d given myself outside his house last night. I decided that had been entirely in my head, and I wrote him off definitively as a suspect.

Lynne Bankowski’s name pulled up 58 matches, the most out of the three of them. After skimming them all, I deduced that four different Lynne Bankowskis existed. One lived in Florida and was retired, the second was a high school student in Ohio, the third an attorney in Colorado, and the fourth, my traveling nurse. She was on LinkedIn and Facebook, but her information on both was the basic name-job-home state. I don’t know if it was interesting or sad that she only had seven friends on Facebook. Since I had only just now opened a Facebook account so I could spy on her, my vote was for interesting. Her Facebook posts were scarce and mostly updates of online games she was playing, but her info page linked to a blog. I clicked on it.

The blog was titled “Cherry Pits,” and the red fruit decorated the borders of the page. The top post was made two days ago, and its headline was, “What’s Wrong with River Grove.” The post complained about the lack of a movie theater, irregular road plowing, and mean people, among other grievances. Below that was a post called, “What’s Wrong with TV,” followed by, “What’s Wrong with Teachers,” and “What’s Wrong with Health Care.” I counted 127 posts, all of them complaints by their titles. According to the info page of the blog, it was started two years ago last November. The complaints seemed petty, for the most part, and none of them had comments. I saw only one title in the compendium that interested me: “What’s Wrong with Me.” I clicked on the title and was brought to the blog post. It was empty.

“Time’s up!”

Mr. Denny’s voice goosed me. I’d been so focused on Lynne’s blog that I’d forgotten where I was.

“Your tests have just automatically closed. Any unanswered questions will be marked incorrect, I’m afraid. We’ll mail out your test scores and final percentage for the class within seven days.” Mr. Denny clapped his hands, once. “It’s been a good week. I hope you agree. Any questions before we call it a day?”

Gene was sitting at a computer near Mr. Denny. “The extra assignment,” he said.

Of course. I’d given up on those questions after I’d realized I lacked the resources to verify whether I was on the FBI list and didn’t want to knock on legs to discover who had the flesh and who had the wood. Come to think of it, did anyone even wear wooden legs any more? It was probably a prosthetic so well-made that it’d be hard to tell from the real thing in casual contact.

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Denny said, eyes twinkling. “The extra assignment. You mean the secrets, right? How about this? I’ll write them on this white board. Each of you write down your guesses as to who owns which secret on a sheet of paper right now. I’ll tell you immediately if any of you matched them all correctly.”

I ripped a piece of paper out. Gene was ex-military, Leo Albanian, Kent unemployed but still going to work, Edgar a cheater. I guessed Roger, the guy who’d arrived late to class three out of five times, had a drinking problem. I put myself down as FBI watch list and Dale as having a wooden leg. I scribbled my name on the top and walked the list to Mr. Denny, then sat back down until everyone else had done the same.

He smiled distantly as he read the answers. Once he had gone through them all, he addressed the class. “No one got them all right. One of you answered only one wrong.”

We all looked at each other.