Signs of Struggle (24 page)

My first thought was to call Highsmith’s editor, maybe even the publisher, but I decided against it. The damage was done, my privacy compromised. Time to move on to better situations.

So I called Liv Olson. When she picked up her phone, I said, “How would you like to go to dinner with me tonight? I would be happy to pick you up at seven.”

“Oh, is this that violent guy who never goes anywhere without his shotgun? Should I be seen with someone who has brought so much death to our bucolic little village?”

I groaned. She laughed. I said, “Go ahead, take a chance. Custer did.”

“I’m not sure that’s very encouraging.”

“Don’t you want to know our destination, should you decide to take a chance?”

“I’m all ears.”

“I know better.”

“You’ve been peeking,” she said.

“And it’s been productive. So, are you interested?”

“I’d love to have dinner with you, Thomas. What would be the appropriate attire?”

“I guess professional casual would do it. Curious?”

“Surprise me,” she said, her voice lowering.

“I thought I did. Very recently.”

There was a sexy chuckle, and then Liv Olson said, “Surprise me again.”

“See you at seven.”

“Yes, you will,” she said, and the conversation ended.

I
hoped dinner with Olivia might help me calm down, regain my perspective, prevent me from strangling Suzanne Highsmith. I dropped the phone in a drawer, then noticed the e-mail light was blinking on the computer.

It had to be Ernie. No one else had the address.

The e-mail read:

Neat-o article in this morning’s Corn Belt Bugle! Perhaps you’ve read about the madman who’s moved into this idyllic village somewhere in Iowa and precipitated mayhem and death. Could you maybe get back to me on the real story, preferably before the sequel? Please?

Shalom,

Shotgun O’Shea’s Pastor

I got the phone back out and called Ernie. He answered on the third ring. “Shotgun O’Shea here,” I said.

“What’s going on up there? I thought everything was going well, almost boring. Now this article. I’m having trouble concentrating. Given the media, are there any inaccuracies in the piece?”

“I don’t carry a shotgun everywhere I go. I shower without it. I am not ‘secretive.’ I am ‘private.’ I am not ‘refusing to talk.’ I am just refusing to talk to reporters, especially that one. I’m a regular chatterbox with everyone else, including the Sheriff.”

“You’ve been throwing people off bridges? You shot two guys? Both dead?”

I brought Ernie up to date and filled him in on Hugh and Larry Soderstrom. He asked, “Do you think maybe one brother killed the other? There’s biblical precedent, you know.”

“I’m pretty sure. And Larry’s disappeared.”

“So what are you doing now?”

“I’m going out to dinner.”

“I was asking what you are going to do now with regard to the guy who is getting people to try to kill you,” Ernie sounded exasperated.

“Keep looking.”

“But for now, he’s still loose and after you?”

“He’s still loose. I would like to think he’s losing interest in me and seriously considering seminary. Try not to worry, Ernie. I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, and there are some people here who are watching out for me, too.”

“Yeah, people named Lunatic Mooning and Bunza Steele. I am not comforted.”

“I’d appreciate your prayers. Guardian angels would be nice.”

“I will pray, but I'm thinking I need to come up.”

“Ernie, if you want, you may worry in itty-bitty increments, just to feel better and meet the worry requirement, but that’s it.”

Ernie said, “I’m wondering if getting rid of criminals glorifies God. If you think you need a little backup, I’ll be there.”

“I will not hesitate to call for reinforcements, but I’ll be fine,” I said.

“God is sovereign,” Ernie said.

“Tru dat, yo,” I said and hung up. I looked at the clock. Time to get going. I cleaned up and dressed in tan slacks, a blue shirt, and an impressionistic flowery tie Michelle gave me for Father’s Day three years ago. Sign of healing, I think, wearing it. I left Chief Justice on the kitchen counter and took off. Born to be wild.

I picked up Liv at exactly seven. She was wearing a simple black dress that, on her, wasn’t so simple. She greeted me with a brief kiss and a longer one when I asked how to get to Whispering Birch Golf and Country Club, and then we were on our way.

The place looked like it fit into the property, as if it had been coaxed from the environment. Giant oaks abounded, but also red and sugar maples, and a plethora of white and yellow birch trees flourished everywhere. The club looked old and well maintained. Green before green was cool.

We pulled into the parking lot among a congregation of fancy cars, including a Rolls Royce with Wisconsin plates. My big Ford was the only pickup in the lot. I parked, got out, and fetched Liv. We walked together on the brick sidewalk leading to the clubhouse, admiring immaculate flowerbeds lining the approach. She identified the different flowers. I immediately forgot their names, the kind of exchange Karen and I often enjoyed. A brief shadow of guilt flitted across my psyche, but I let it go.

The blue granite clubhouse emerged in a stand of white birch trees at the end of the winding sidewalk. Inside at the maître ‘d’s station, I gave my name and “Walter,” according to the discreet little nametag on the breast pocket of his light blue blazer, smiled and led us to our table in a far corner of the dining room, adjacent to a window that looked out over the 18th green. I liked our spot and said so, surprised that the maître ‘d was the one who seated us.

“Thank you, Mr. O’Shea,” Walter said. “Grace will be with you to take your order.”

“Grace is always with me.”

Walter tipped his head to the side, said, “Indeed;” then, “Here is the menu for this evening. I hope your dining experience is most enjoyable.” Then he left.

“So, what do you think so far? Surprised?” Liv asked.

“I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve sampled the Thunderbird and Milk Duds.”

“They’re both excellent, although I can’t speak from personal experience, having never tried them. Harmon Payne told me once they were superior.”

“Speaking of Harmon, what’s his story?”

Liv leaned forward and I enjoyed the modest display of cleavage the neckline of her black dress afforded. “Harmon’s a good guy. A good cop. But his wife left him a few years back because his job seemed to be more important than she was. He loved Pam, but he was shot once, injured a couple of other times, and lost for two days in a blizzard. She couldn’t take it, and left. She’s living in Ohio someplace now, remarried, children.”

“Does he have any children?”

“No. Sad story all around, but I think he does find fulfillment in his work. I think he deserves a bigger role in a bigger place, but he loves Rockbluff. Born and raised.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“Rumors to that effect. But not from around here. I think she lives in Cedar Rapids, but that’s hearsay. He should have a girlfriend, fine man like that. I love the guy, if you want to know the truth. Known him for years.”

Grace, mid-twenties and tall, appeared and greeted us by name. Like everyone else, she was dressed in light blue and white. White blouse, light blue bolero jacket, dark blue skirt with a conservative hemline. We ordered; the chicken cordon bleu for me and filet mignon for Liv (“I’m in the mood for red meat.”). I also ordered a carafe of domestic white Merlot.

“Planning ahead,” I said to Grace as she wrote our orders, “what do you have for dessert tonight, realizing that dessert is the key to my dining experience?”

Grace replied, “Tonight we have New York cheesecake, amaretto cheesecake, Cherries Jubilee, Chocolata Comatosa, and peach, apple and pecan praline pies, which are all available a la mode.”

“Well, Grace, tell my lovely companion about the ‘Chocolata Comatosa’.”

“The Chocolata Comatosa is the creation of our pastry chef, who is from Belgium. It is a double-chocolate cake, seven thin layers with intense dark chocolate icing between each layer, another icing, from semi-sweet chocolate, on the outside with a special chocolate liqueur poured over the top, and dark chocolate-covered maraschino cherries spilling off the top of the cake. In addition, shavings of very dark Swiss chocolate adorn the exterior of the creation. You may not order Chocolata Comatosa unless you have proof of legal age and a bodyweight of at least one hundred forty-five pounds.”

I laughed. “That leaves out Olivia, who won’t touch one hundred forty-five pounds holding my Bulldog.”

“We make exceptions for people who have twice won the Iowa High School Teacher of the Year Award,” Grace said, smiling at Liv.

“Wow. Then, by all means, bring Olivia Olson the Chocolata Comatosa after the entrée. Good for you, Liv,” I said. “I didn’t know you were famous.”

“Thank you. So, what will you be looking forward to for dessert?”

“I’ll go Southern with the pecan praline pie. Sounds healthful.”

Grace nodded. “A wise and excellent choice.”

Big tip for Grace coming up.

Just as she turned away, a gentleman strode into the room, which had been filling up quickly. He appeared to be in his late 30’s, maybe five-nine, about 160 pounds and dressed in cream slacks, a pale blue shirt with a bright yellow tie, and a navy blue blazer with gold buttons that glittered even in the subdued light. Sandy-colored hair cut short, and a good, but not overdone tan completed his appearance. His eyes scanned the room intensely while Walter seated him in a booth on the opposite side of the room. Which made me feel less special.

When the man’s eyes found mine, he paused briefly, as if he were retrieving and storing data, and then looked away. I had the distinct feeling I was expected to drop eye contact first. I did not. I never lost a staring contest except three or four times with Karen, who cheated by unbuttoning her blouse.

“Liv, who is that man who just came in?”

She twisted in her chair and glanced about. “The man in the lemon tie and blue blazer?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Jurgen Clontz, Junior. Businessman, millionaire, member here. He’s on the Board of Governors, too."

“So that’s the man with the Jaguar.”

“You know about him?”

“Harmon filled me in. He looks cold.”

“He creeps me out, but he can be pleasant.”

“How?”

“He’s given money to the school. New band uniforms three years ago; completely new, cutting edge computer system and smart boards for the high school classrooms.”

“What’s the quid pro quo?”

“Maybe none. Some people say he’s not Satan incarnate,” she said, “but there is lively debate on the topic.”

Dinner was delicious, flawlessly served, and excellently presented. Dessert, even better. Liv finished the Chocolate Comatosa all by herself. She looked proud. I called for our check, paid Grace in cash, including an appreciative tip, and started for the door with Liv, determined to complete the evening with entertainment and maybe a cold beer or two in The Embers. Before we could exit the dining room, Grace intercepted us.

“Mr. Clontz told me to request the honor of your presence, Mr. O’Shea, Miss Olson.”

I looked across the dining room. Clontz twisted around in his booth so he could see us. The man shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Why not? Can’t hurt.”

“Liv, if he hits on you, pound your palm into his nose and shove up.”

“You’re a crazy person,” she said. We crossed the room.

“Thank you for joining me, Mr. O’Shea, and good evening to you, Olivia, always nice to gaze upon a beautiful woman,” Clontz said as he beckoned us to sit. We shook hands. Clontz’s hand was small, narrow, and cold, as if there were a circulation problem, but his grip was strong, business-like. He said, “I appreciate your joining me, although, judging by the article in this morning’s paper, you are already an obvious risk taker.”

“As you know, I always carry a shotgun to minimize those risks.”

“So, where is it?”

“In my truck,” I lied. “I can get to it in about two minutes.”