Dial M for Meat Loaf (16 page)

28

“Get out here!” shouted Cora. She was standing in the Washburns’ backyard, the shotgun gripped tightly in her hands, the butt resting against her shoulder. “Get out here or I’m going to blow a hole in your goddamn picture window!”

The first person to step out onto the back deck was Milton. He was holding a coffee cup in one hand and had raised the other to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “What the hell do you want?”

“I got something to tell you, all of you. Anybody else in that house better come out now.”

After her near-death experience last night, Cora realized she should be scared, but instead she was furious. The man who shot her in the head—or more accurately, in the wig—as she stood in the closet watching, had prowled around her house for nearly an hour before finally leaving. Thankfully, he was a fool. He never checked to see that she was dead. He either thought he was a crack shot, or he didn’t like the sight of blood up close and personal.

Cora had spent the night in a cheap motel. She hadn’t slept much, but she had done some important thinking. She should probably report what happened to the police, insist that they find out who the intruder was, that they protect her. But if she did, there was always the chance that they might find out about the hundred thousand dollars and make her give it back. That money was
hers
. She’d earned it.

The bottom line was, Cora—not the police—was the best captain of her fate. The Washburns had interfered with her life long enough. It was time she interfered with them.

Plato stepped out on the deck next. “What do you want?” he demanded, slipping on his sunglasses.

He’d turned into a real pork pie in his middle age, Cora thought, eying him critically. His mother and father were as skinny as a rail. So was his sister. What on earth had happened to him? “Is that it? Anybody else in there?”

“Why don’t you lower the shotgun, Mrs. Runbeck?” said Milton. “Put it away in your car, and then we can talk.”

She was standing in front of her Chevy Malibu, which she’d parked next to a derelict-looking vegetable garden. The cornstalks were high, but dry as sticks. The beans and tomatoes were lying flat in the dirt. “You think I’d come near this snake pit without protection? You must figure me for an idiot.” She planted her feet firmly and regripped the gun. “I want you to know, I got your message last night.”

“Message,” said Milton. “What are you talking about?”

“One of you came to my house and tried to kill me. I imagine the fact that I’m standing here, alive and well, is causing one of you some real psychic pain.”

“What do you mean, one of us tried to kill you?” said Plato. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Let’s not play games.”

“I’m calling the police,” said Milton, turning toward the door.

“Stay put!” Cora thundered. She waited for him to do as he was told. “I got two big barrels here, and believe me, I’ll use them both if I have to.”

“She’s insane,” said Plato, looking a little shaken.

“Here’s the deal. I’ve got the goods on John. I’ve read all the letters several times. I know what he did. I know what he
is
. Shame on
all
of you for trying to protect a man like that.” She glared at them with as much venom as she could muster. “If anything should happen to me, copies of those letters will be sent to the police. Do I make myself clear? You harm one hair on my head and John Washburn will end up behind bars.”

“What
letters
?” demanded Plato. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Neither do I,” said Milton, with more indignation than his nephew.

They were a real pair, thought Cora. The son and brother of a bigamist and a murderer. One of them was a murderer, too. The very idea that something as evil as that could happen in a good Lutheran town like Rose Hill made her blood boil. And
they
had the gall to be indignant. “Ask John to explain it. Now, let’s recap. I’ve got the goods. I’ve also come into some money recently, if you catch my drift. Leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone. Oh, and one more thing. Just for my edification, what’s John’s middle name?”

The two men exchanged confused glances.

“Arthur,” Milton replied finally. “John Arthur Washburn.”

Hmm, thought Cora. That didn’t fit. Maybe J. D. was a nickname.

“Why do you need to know that?” asked Plato.

“None of your business, boy,” snapped Cora. “Just stay away from me. We’ll do our own little version of a Cold War standoff. Peaceful coexistence. Just remember, I’m the one with the intercontinental ballistic missiles.”

October, 1970

Dear Gilbert:

It’s just after one in the morning, but I can’t sleep, so I
thought I’d write you a letter. I’m in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, at a Best Western motel. I spent the morning
calling on accounts. I was supposed to head up to Green
Bay this afternoon, but the fall weather is so beautiful, I
decided to take the rest of the day off. I ended up in a
park walking around an old lighthouse. I guess I’m still a
loner at heart. I’m with people so much of the time that I
can’t wait to get in the car and drive away. Anywhere,
just to be out in the open, by myself, with nobody
wanting anything from me. It’s funny, but the longer I
live, the more responsibilities I seem to acquire. They feel
awfully heavy, sometimes, but I gotta keep on pluggin,
right? Can’t let the assholes get me down.

I guess maybe I haven’t told you everything about my
life. I am not, as they say, an open book. I know times are
tough where you are, but it’s not all wine and roses out
here on the outside either. I figure there are all kinds of
prisons, Gil. Sometimes I think the ones we make ourselves are the worst.

But, hey, I can’t complain. I got a nice pay hike last
month. Bliss is proud of me, and that always feels great.
She made a special meal for just the two of us a couple of
nights ago. She’s been working real hard on her paintings. You know what I think of all that. She’s talented,
but she needs a break. When I go to drug shows and sales
conferences in other parts of the country, I always try to
talk up what she’s doing. I even bring photos along. Before we got married, I promised her that I’d help her get
a show at one of these hot new galleries. Maybe I was
just shooting off my mouth. Sometimes I do that. Hell,
I’m a salesman. I do it all the time. I thought I could sell
her
just the way I sell sunglasses, but so far, no go. And
she wants it
so
bad. I guess I don’t know the art biz the
way I know drug sundries.

Anyway, I better try to get some sleep. I’ve got to make
up for lost time tomorrow. Hang in there, Gil.

Your friend,

J. D.

29

All the way from St. Paul to Rose Hill, Sophie fought an internal tug of war. Should she get involved with Nathan Buckridge again, even on a very limited basis? She was genuinely intrigued by the prospect of watching him develop a restaurant at New Fonteney. She’d be fascinated to see
anyone
develop the space. From her brief experience of the old monastery, she knew the dining room would be amazing. And knowing Nathan, the food would be, too.

And yet, since it had nothing directly to do with restaurant reviewing, how would Bram interpret her interest? She’d examined the situation from every angle, her personal feelings included. If Nathan could just get it through his thick skull that Bram came first in her life, if she didn’t have such a clear sense that Nathan was simply biding his time until he could make another move on her, it might be possible to remain friends. But the way it stood, any connection between them seemed very foolish indeed. The question was an old one. Could an erstwhile beau ever become a friend? Or more accurately, could an old boyfriend who didn’t want to leave romance in the past ever be trusted?

Finding Nathan in her office today had been a shock, but perhaps a necessary reminder that the sexual electricity between them hadn’t gone away. She didn’t want it to be there, but it was. She was probably playing with fire to even consider getting together to look at the blueprints. She might as well drink liquid drain cleaner or throw herself in front of a bus.

It was dusk by the time Sophie pulled her car into the Washburns’ backyard. She cut the motor and sat for a few moments drinking in the small-town quiet. She was a city person, born and bred, but she appreciated the change of pace. As she opened the door and was about to get out, her cell phone squawked. Grabbing it off the passenger’s seat, she clicked it on.

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Rudy!” She hadn’t heard from her son for several days. “How’s everything going?”

“Fine. I should be back home by Friday night at the latest.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m eating my way south from Duluth.”

She smiled at the image.

“I just had dinner at the Blue Ox in Kettle River.”

“How was it?”

“Great. I took lots of notes. They have a battered fresh walleye in cornmeal and ground hazelnuts that’s to die for. It’s served with wild rice pilaf mixed with dried cranberries, fresh rosemary, and lightly sautéed fennel. Really terrific food. The place was packed.”

“How many cafes have you visited?”

“Oh, probably thirty you could call legitimate, not a franchise or glorified bar. I’m getting tons of new recommendations as I go along, so I’ve been altering my route accordingly. I could easily stay out here another month, but I’m getting kind of homesick. I’ve got lots of material we can use, so I think I’ve done my job.”

“Admirably.”

“Listen, I was wondering if you’d heard from that old guy I talked to last week—Morey Hall. Did he ever call you with the information you wanted?”

“He did.” She went on to explain what he’d told her about Jim Newman, a.k.a. John Washburn, and one of his many wives, Viola Little. “Have you run into anybody else who recognized Washburn from the photo?”

“Actually, I have. Three people, to be exact, all in Pearl, Wisconsin. And all one-hundred-percent positive they remembered him. But they knew him as J. D. Washburn, not John.”

“Interesting. He probably used his initials back then.”

“You’ve got three other names, right?”

“Morgan Walters, Jim Newman, and Glen Taylor. Washburn either has three separated-at-birth doubles, or he led an active social life.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“You’ve been a huge help, Rudy.”

“Have you decided yet what to do with the information?”

“Not really. Actually, I just got to Rose Hill. I’m sitting in my car in the Washburns’ backyard. I’m spending the night. Tomorrow morning, Bernice and I are going to put our heads together about that recipe contest, see if we can come up with the winners.”

“Good luck,” said Rudy. “I’ll call when I get in.”

“Be safe, sweetheart.”

“You, too. Later, Mom.” The line clicked off.

Sophie stuffed the cell phone into her purse, retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk, then walked through the thick grass to the steps leading up to the back deck. As she was about to ring the doorbell, she glanced at the picture window directly next to her. The heavy drapes were pulled, but a crack in the center allowed her to see inside. It was almost dark out now and there was a light on in the living room. Sophie’s eyes bulged in horror as she saw Milton take Mary into his arms and kiss her passionately.

“Oh, Lord,” she whispered, looking away. But she couldn’t resist. Her gaze swung back to the window. Stop it! she ordered herself, but she wasn’t listening to her boring inner voice anymore. Obviously they hadn’t heard her drive in. If she rang the doorbell now, would they wonder if she’d seen them? What were they doing! This was just one more complication in an already complicated family.

Sophie waited. After a minute, she looked again. This time, Mary and Milton were sitting down on the couch. Milton held Mary’s hands in his.

Giving it another full minute, Sophie finally rang the bell.

Milton appeared at the door a few seconds later. “Sophie, hi,” he said, welcoming her inside. “Bernice told us you’d be arriving this evening.”

“Is she here?” Sophie asked, waving to Mary. The air inside the house was deliciously cool. Outside, the temperature was still in the low nineties.

“No. She’s at the hospital. And when she’s done, she’s meeting her friend, Angelo, for a drink. She asked me to make sure you got settled in. You can use the same room as before. Clean towels are in the bathroom. You know the drill. Oh, and help yourself to anything in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks,” said Sophie.

“I was just about to give Mary a lift over to the hospital.”

Mary appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking tired. “Good to see you again, Sophie. We’ve been eating a lot of meat loaf since your last visit.”

Sophie smiled. “I’ll bet you have.” And that’s when she saw it. The tattoo.

Milton noticed her looking at it. “It’s a snake,” he said, pulling up the sleeve of his shirt.

“With a red eye,” said Sophie, feeling a jolt of adrenaline rocket through her body. When she looked back at Milton, she tried to find the young Morgan Walters in his whiskered and aging face. It was impossible.

“Something wrong?” Mary asked.

“Wrong?” Sophie repeated, stepping back against the kitchen counter for support. “No, nothing’s wrong.” Her gaze returned to the tattoo. “It must hurt a lot to get one of those done.”

“Nah,” said Milton, “it’s not bad. Course when you’re young and full of yourself, you don’t admit that anything hurts. Tattoos are something that can make a guy feel more daring than he really is. They’re silly, but that’s an old man’s perspective.”

“We better get going,” said Mary. She was holding her own overnight bag.

“Here, let me take that,” said Milton. As he headed for the door, he looked back over her shoulder. “Don’t expect me home right away, Sophie. I’ll probably stay at the hospital for a while.”

“No problem.” She felt dazed. Confused. Like someone had changed the rules on her in midgame.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Mary asked, looking concerned.

“Don’t worry about me. I just need to eat something.” At least she could still lie convincingly.

“Try the meat loaf labeled number four,” said Milton. “It’s my favorite.”

“I’ll do that,” said Sophie, her mind reeling at the idea that a man with
his
history could stand there and offer her something as prosaic as dinner suggestions.

From this moment on, Sophie would forever associate meat loaf with Rose Hill, snake tattoos, bigamy, and murder.