A Lonely Way to Die: A Utah O'Brien Mystery Novel (Minnesota Mysteries Series Book 2) (11 page)

Mort put the flier on table, dismissing it as unimportant, and gave the inside of his ear a good rub. Then he reached down to give Jocko an ear rub, too, and a bite of his sandwich. Molly ambled over for her share, and she got a bite, too.

“The sheriff called while you were out yakking with Sam,” he said. “The coroner won’t do a full workup on the body until Monday, at the earliest, but he did a blood test and found opiates in the woman’s system. Prescription painkillers—and there was a lot of it. Not quite enough to kill her, but almost. Those things are supposed to be slow-release, to make them safe. I guess addicts can get around that by smashing the pills instead of taking them whole.”

I reached for the flier, folded it back up, and put it in my sweatshirt pocket. “Gabe said his mom didn’t use drugs.”

“The boy is only twelve years old, Utah.”

“Almost thirteen. He lives in the city. His dad is in the music industry. He watches TV. He knows more about drugs than we do.”

“Fair enough. Get me another cup of coffee, will you?”

I stood up and reached for the pot and refilled his mug. Josie still didn’t want any. I sat back down and waited for him to get around to telling us about the rest of Wally’s phone call. He sipped his coffee slowly, dragging out the wait, just for fun.

To fill in the time, I said, thinking out loud, “If Sonje was full of opiates, there’s really no point in trying to figure out why she died out by the river. How much does it take to OD on painkillers if the pills are smashed instead of taken whole?”

He didn’t answer me. He was concentrating on his coffee, probably waiting for me to shut up so he could get back to his own story.

I tried to picture how it could have happened, based on a lecture one of the volunteer firemen gave at our last community meeting. Heroin and prescription opiate overdose was a growing problem in the county. They start with the painkillers, and when they run out of money they turn to heroin, because it’s cheaper.

“Here’s how it could have happened,” I said. “The bad guy slips her the smashed pills in something he gives her to eat or drink. The opiates start to kick in after she gets back in her car. When she starts to feel weird, she stops at the diner for help, but it’s closed. Then more of the opiates reach her bloodstream, she’s disoriented, and she can’t find her way back to her car. When she falls down, she can’t get back up.”

“Maybe she took them on purpose. We have to keep an open mind.”

“Then why would she try to get into the diner?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she changed her mind.” He didn’t say it like he believed it, though. “The sheriff said they didn’t find her cell phone, and it wasn’t in the coat Molly found. The coroner did a test on that flask. It was nothing but whiskey.”

“So the husband didn’t do it,” I said. “I thought he might have figured out a way to get the drugs in that flask before she left the city. I had this whole scenario worked up, with the husband pretending to be in Europe when he was really home yesterday morning, spiking her whiskey. Or him in cahoots with the housekeeper. But I guess we have to cross him off the list.”

“Probably. Unless he’s a lot smarter than we are.” He took a few more sips of his coffee. “And they found a checkbook in the woman’s purse. One of those kind that have the carbon copies, so you don’t forget to write down your checks. I’ve been thinking about getting that kind next time, because I—”

“Mort.”

“Huh? Oh yeah. The last check was for twenty-five thousand dollars. Made out to Carol Kramer.”

I let out a whistle. He sat back with a big grin, enjoying my shock. I leaned over so I could see around Mort’s bulk, and looked at my mother. She was equally impressed. Mort had his back to her and had to turn around to enjoy her reaction. That’s one of the main problems with using my kitchen when there’s more than two people in the room. She got up and came to the table and sat at the end, holding the baby up against her shoulder.

Mort now had the full attention of his audience. “Thing is, though, there weren’t any signs of a struggle at the scene, and the coroner didn’t find any on the body, either. He’s still going to do an autopsy, but he doesn’t expect to find anything else that will be very useful. His preliminary report says it was death by misadventure. It leaves him a little wiggle room, because that can also mean she did something stupid that put her at risk.”

He passed his hand over his bald head, and then continued. “I don’t think Wally told the reporters about the note they found in her purse, but I checked the main news sites on your laptop while Sam and Gabe were out with Molly. Some of them are saying it was suicide, some are saying she was a drug addict. It’s not pretty.”

“Yes,” I said. “Angie saw the same thing on TV.”

He stood up. “Mildred said the preacher knew Gwyneth was coming this weekend. I think we need to go see him next.”

“You stay here with the baby,” I said. “Josie and I should go. She knows John Owen a lot better than you do.”

I expected Mort to complain about getting left out, but his face split into a grin. He walked to the end of the table and reached for the baby. Josie tried to resist, but he took Grace anyway. He put the baby upright so she could see over his shoulder. “Me and the little one will have a good time. You two run along and talk to the preacher. Don’t worry about us. I know how to change a diaper if I have to.”

Josie stood and glared first at Mort, then at me. “I still don’t think your so-called investigation is a good idea. It’s not like when you tried to find out who killed poor Larry Webb.”

I reminded her that she helped us find out who killed the real estate agent. “And since when did we start calling him ‘poor’ Larry Webb? You couldn’t stand the guy.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it.”

“What is the point?” I asked. “I really don’t know what you’re upset about.”

“There’s a child involved this time.” She stuck her chin out stubbornly, and looked off to the side.

“Right …”

“He’s getting too attached to Sam,” she said. “Stick around, help the boy deal with his loss, and then let him go home with his father and get on with his life. It’s the right thing to do.”

I looked over her head for a few beats, at a knot in the loft railing. Then I brought my head back down and looked her in the eye.

I said, in my most diplomatic voice. “I’m still going to talk to the pastor. I would very much like you to come with me.”

She kept looking at me sternly, with her fists at her waist and her elbows jutting out, but I stood my ground. She’s half a head shorter than I am, and my arms were crossed over my chest.

She knew I wouldn’t budge, so she said, “All right, I’ll come with you. But if you hurt that boy, it will be on your conscience.” She twirled around and stalked to the back door to get her coat.

I looked at Mort. He shrugged. No help from him.

When Josie had her coat on, he went to her, reached out, and pulled her to him, being careful to not squish the baby. He planted a big kiss on her lips. She tried to pull away, then gave in and kissed him back.

I put on my yellow coat and walked out of the kitchen into the museum. She followed me. “Thank you for getting my jacket out of the dryer,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

TWELVE

Jocko stayed with Mort. Josie and I took my little pickup to the General Baptist church on Andersen Street, about five blocks away from the museum. The tall wooden door of the old church faces east, and it’s set into the bell tower just deep enough to give the impression of offering protection from the weather, without really helping very much. The church was built in the early 1900s. If there was a bell in the tower, I never heard it ring.

Josie and I went in, took off our snow-covered boots inside the door, and padded down the central aisle in our stocking feet. The door to the church office was on the left side of the back wall, behind the altar.

Years ago, an ill-conceived remodeling job dropped the ceiling to save on heating costs, so it no longer followed the steep angle of the roof. The highest point of the ceiling now rests a few inches above the curved stained glass window set into the eastern wall.

Almost every year, someone petitions to have the ceiling raised to its original height, but with the dwindling, aging congregation, there’s never enough money—and besides, most of the parishioners can’t see the point. It’s been like that for years, so why change it now?

I turned around to look at the window, and I experienced a déjà vu moment. I’d been in the church before, of course, but this time I was remembering that same low ceiling and that same window from Sonje McCrae’s latest fantasy novel. It was in the middle of an exciting section of the plot, so I didn’t notice the resemblance when I read the book earlier that year.

I was sure she described the window perfectly, right down to the red and yellow fleur-de-lis at the top. Sonje McCrae must have had a photographic memory.

She used the low ceiling to add a sense of foreboding to the scene. To me, it just looked sad, a beautiful design destroyed by good intentions.

We walked down the aisle between wooden pews. The varnish was worn through on the backs of the pews from worshipers’ hands, showing light wood underneath.

We knocked on the office door and heard the pastor invite us in. He gestured toward the two chairs in front of his old wooden desk, and we sat. He offered coffee from a pot sitting on a hotplate on the sideboard. I accepted, Josie declined.

“Would you prefer tea?” he asked.

Again, Josie declined. The pastor poured a mug of coffee for me, and one for himself.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, when he was once again sitting behind his desk. He wore a black turtleneck sweater under a brown tweed jacket, with suede leather patches on the elbows. His black hair was thinning and turning white at the temples, and static electricity made the wispy tendrils stand out from his head. The static wasn’t coming from his powerful spiritual presence, but from the nylon carpet in the church. Female parishioners have been complaining about the carpet for years.

With the deep bags under his eyes, and his long, thin face and crooked nose, John Owen always reminded me of one of the guys hanging around the bar in old cowboy movies. He’d been the pastor of the General Baptist church for a long time, but he was only a few years older than me, in his mid-fifties. He came to West Elmer right out of seminary when I was still living in the city. He got married after a few years, to a local girl, and never left.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, when he was once again sitting behind his desk.

I was busy sipping my coffee, so Josie answered him. “You heard that a woman was found out at the east end of the river walk this morning?”

The pastor nodded. “Of course, everyone has heard by now. Several people called me to make sure I didn’t miss it on the news. They said it was a famous author. She wrote those fantasy books for young people, with gods of all kinds. Somebody said there was sex. I can’t imagine why someone like that would come all the way out here …” He shook his head, sadly.

I held my mug in my hands, warming them, and came to Sonje’s defense. “I’ve read her books, John, and there isn’t any sex. The characters are teenagers, so of course they think about it, but never openly. The books really aren’t all that bad—”

“Did you know she’s Mildred’s oldest daughter?” Josie asked. “Used to be called Gwyneth, before she changed her name.”

The pastor almost dropped his mug. “No. I didn’t know. Oh, lord, poor Mildred. She didn’t call me—I knew Gwyneth was coming today. Mildred invited me to supper tonight, to meet her. I tried many times to encourage Mildred to soften her heart towards the girl, and this was the first time …”

He frowned at a book shelf against the wall, which was haphazardly filled with books and stacks of papers. One of the piles was threatening to fall off and land on the floor. He shook his head slowly. “They said on the news it was suicide. Lord, the night before she was to meet Mildred again, after all these years? When I first heard, I thought it must be a car accident or something like that, but the news is saying …”

Then he turned back to us. “I don’t understand. Are you here because you’re concerned about Mildred? Is that why you came here?”

“No, John,” I said. “I saw you in the diner yesterday afternoon. You were sitting at the counter. Carol Kramer was there, too, with a woman. Do you remember?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, still bewildered.

“That was Sonje Neilina McCrae, the author. The one who used to be called Gwyneth Price. Did you recognize her?”

“Oh! No, I didn’t. They were having a private conversation, and I didn’t feel it was right to disturb them. That was Gwyneth, you say? But she didn’t look at all—”

He took a moment to collect himself, then continued. “Of course, Gwyneth and Carol were great friends for years. I remember when they stopped speaking to each other.”

He took a sip of coffee and then took off his rimless glasses and polished them on his knit shirt front. He concentrated on the glasses as he said, “When Carol became pregnant with her third child, it didn’t go well. Josie, you know this, of course. Before the baby was due, she told us her friendship with Gwyneth was over. She never told us why.”