The Lost Women of Lost Lake (8 page)

“You keep saying that. What are you suggesting?”

“Sometimes,” said Mrs. LaVasser, her voice sounding more and more depressed, “I think I should just turn myself in. End it.”

“
That's
your solution? Tell me, how would you do it and not implicate me? You make that choice and you take me down with you. No way is that going to happen. This has to be a joint decision.”

“Keep your voice down.” She was silent for a few seconds. “You're willing to wait it out? See if he comes after us?”

“What's the alternative?”

She didn't answer. “We're sitting ducks.”

Jonah didn't have a clue what they were talking about. He wondered if it had something to do with last night's unwanted visitor.

“How could we have been so stupid?” asked Mrs. LaVasser, an ache in her voice.

“We were young.”

“That hardly covers it. Most young people never did what we did.”

“We were angry. Hurt. We wanted to hurt back.”

“You've come to terms with it. I never have.”

“You think it's easy for me?”

“You've gone on with your life, made a success of it.”

“Is that the way it looks? People see what they want to see, I guess.” Tessa paused. “We have two choices. We can wait it out, or we can go after him.”

“I knew you'd get there sooner or later.”

“Me? Isn't that what you were suggesting?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“We couldn't do it ourselves. We'd have to find someone.”

“Just like that?” Mrs. LaVasser snapped her fingers.

“Why did you come here, Judy? What do you want from me?”

Judy, thought Jonah. Why was his aunt calling Mrs. LaVasser Judy?

“Honestly?” said Mrs. LaVasser. “I don't know.”

“If you push me to make the decision, does that make you any less a part of it? We always have choices, even if none of them are good.”

“Just like in sixty-eight.”

“Hardly. Back then we mistook passion for insight. This would be simple survival.”

“I can't, Tessa. I just can't.”

“Fine. Then we wait to see what happens.”

“I can't do that either. I … I need to pray about it.”

“Go ahead. Pray. Nobody's stopping you.”

“You're such a heathen.”

“Don't start.”

“I feel like I'm
drowning
.”

“So do I.”

“I have to talk to George. He'll know what to do.”

“No way,” said Tessa. The bed creaked with her weight. “The more people who know about what happened, the more danger we're in.”

“But I feel so
alone,
” she cried. “Look, I'm going to kneel down right here. You can pray with me if you want. I wish you would. Or you can just sit there and listen.”

Jonah peeked again, saw Mrs. LaVasser get down on her knees. She closed her eyes and rested her elbows on the bed. Pressing her hands together, she said, “Please,
please
, Lord. I'm sorry. Look into my heart and see for yourself. I made a mistake, and yet that's why your son died for my sins, right? If people didn't make mistakes, we wouldn't have needed a sacrifice. And remember … I'm just bringing this to your attention in case you forgot … I didn't have anything to do with the bomb. Tessa's friend built it. Sure, I went along, so I guess I'm almost as guilty as they are. Please remember that I've gone on to live a good life. Doesn't that count for something? I may have been divorced a couple of times—”

“Four times,” said Tessa.

“But Tessa's gay, so that should make us even. Also, please dear God, if there's any way you can make Steve Feigenbaumer forgive us, will you try? Either that, or make him go away. I'll devote myself to you and your will for the rest of my life if you'll only help me.”

“I don't think bargaining works,” said Tessa.

“Shut up,” hissed Mrs. LaVasser. “This is
my
prayer.” She straightened up and began again. “Lord, forgive my trespasses as I forgive those who trespass against me. Lead me not into temptation. And deliver me from evil. That means Feigenbaumer, Lord.” Bowing her head, she said, “In Jesus's name, amen.”

Jonah withdrew his head. Stepping over to the counter, he stuffed two more spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth. The business about a bomb had really grabbed his interest.

Back in position again, he heard Mrs. LaVasser ask, “You still have a handgun?”

“I do,” said Tessa.

“I want it. I'm not saying I'd use it, but if it comes down to that, I need some way to protect myself. I can't stand to think he's out there lurking, that he's going to put it all together any moment and come after us. I still look a lot like I did when I was young. You—you've changed, dyed your hair, exchanged your glasses for contacts, packed on a bunch of weight.”

“Thanks.”

“Well it's true. If he gets his hands on a better picture of Judy Clark, I'm toast. If he has one of you, he might not be able to make the connection quite so easily.”

Tessa said nothing.

“I feel like I'm glowing in the dark!”

“Okay, okay,” said Tessa, shooshing her. “You can have it. It's in my study.”

Busted, thought Jonah. Sensing the need for a bold move, he called, “Hey, Aunt Tessa, are you up?”

Both women looked stricken as he sauntered into the bedroom.

“Hi,” he said, trying to look both sleepy and innocent. He stretched his arms, gave a yawn. “How're you doing, Mrs. LaVasser?”

She poked her thumb at him and said to Tessa, “What's he doing here?”

Tessa motioned him over to the bed, put her arm around his waist. “He's staying with us for a while.”

“For a long while,” corrected Jonah.

She glanced up at him with a sly look in her eye, rubbed his back. “That remains to be seen, mister. Listen, will you do me a favor?”

“Anything. Want me to put the coffee on?”

“Go into my study. In the top drawer of my desk you'll find a small gold key attached to a maroon, gold, and black Loyola University keyring. You know that wooden cedar chest next to the printer?”

“Yeah?”

“Open it. There's a box inside, sort of a rusty blue metal. Bring it to me.”

“Sure,” he said. Racing back through the kitchen to the other side of the cottage, he found the keyring next to a box of black Sharpies. He crouched down in front of the chest and pressed the key into the lock. Raising the cover, he found the metal box on top of what looked like a treasure trove of personal journals. Each volume had a date on the spine. Removing a large black one that said “1968,” he quickly paged through it, finding his aunt's familiar small, neat handwriting. On a whim, he shoved the volume under his arm. Lifting out the box, he closed the chest and heard the lock click. After returning the key to the desk drawer, he looked around for a someplace to hide the journal.

Taking the stairs up to the loft two at a time, he shoved it under the couch and then rushed back down. Seconds later, he was handing the box to his aunt.

“Now,” said Tessa, smiling up at him, “if you don't mind, this would be a perfect time to make coffee.”

“Happy to.” What he really wanted was to stay and get a firsthand look at the gun.

“When you're done, maybe you'd stick around the living room. Jane's supposed to be by in a little while. She'll need someone to let her in the front door.”

He wasn't stupid. He knew she was not only attempting to get rid of him but also trying to prevent his immediate return.

Instead of making coffee, he ran back to the kitchen and took up his post, watching as his aunt opened the cover and lifted out a snub-nosed revolver.

“Is it loaded?” asked Mrs. LaVasser.

“Of course not.” She rummaged around inside the metal box and withdrew another box, this one small and red. “These are the shells.” She handed everything over. “My advice is to take it out somewhere in the woods and shoot it until it feels comfortable in your hand. It's a thirty-eight, so it has a fairly big kick. Have you ever shot a pistol?”

Mrs. LaVasser shook her head.

“It's been cleaned and well oiled. You shouldn't have any problems with it.”

Jonah couldn't help himself. He was riveted.

Mrs. LaVasser opened her purse and dropped the shells inside. She continued to hold the pistol, examining it, touching the hammer, pulling back a tiny latch that allowed the empty cylinder to fall out. “It's so heavy.”

“Make sure you hide it from George.”

She held out her arm, pointed the gun at the wall.

“Careful. Always keep your index finger pressed along the side, never on the trigger, even if you think it's not loaded.”

“Unless I want to use it.” She kept her arm outstretched for a couple more seconds, then stuffed the gun into her purse and snapped the clasp. “Call me if you see Feigenbaumer again.”

“You do the same.”

She was about to turn around when she stopped herself. “I couldn't live with myself if people in this town found out what we'd done.” Gazing down at the purse, she mumbled a quick thank-you and then turned and disappeared out the French doors.

9

Jane returned to Thunderhook Lodge a little before noon, stopping by the reception desk because she wanted to have a word with Jill. She found her all but sprinting towards the back hallway.

“A problem?” asked Jane, falling in beside her.

“Plumbing,” said Jill. “We had a leak in one of the second-floor rooms. We thought we had it fixed. Now I'm told the ceiling in one of the first-floor rooms is showing signs of water damage. It's always something.”

Jane's first reaction was to say she was sorry to hear it. Her second was more selfish. She was glad someone else had to field the problem, not her. Not being the one in charge had its advantages.

Slowing her pace, Jill asked, “How was breakfast?”

“Tessa seemed to enjoy it. Listen, I know you're busy. Just answer one question. Do you know a guy named Feigenbaumer?”

Jill stopped. “No. Should I?”

“I think he was the man standing outside Tessa's study last night. Did she say any more to you about it?”

She dug her hands into the pockets of her sweater, looking bewildered. “She took that pain pill, so by the time I had Jonah settled in the loft and got myself ready for bed, she was asleep. And then I was up early, so we never had a chance to talk. Honestly, in all the years we've been together, I've never seen her behave like that before.”

“Look, I know you need to go,” said Jane. “I'll catch you later.”

Climbing the main stairs up to the second floor, Jane headed for Cordelia's room. If she wasn't up by now, she should be.

Dressed in a white terry cloth bathrobe, compliments of the lodge, Cordelia answered the door with her hair wrapped in a towel and a mud mask covering her face. The only part of her visage left uncovered were her eyes and lips. She looked like she belonged in a minstrel show.

“Oh. Drat. I was hoping you were room service.” She tapped several keys on her iPhone as she shambled back into the sitting room.

Jane closed the door behind her. The room was a mess. Every chair was covered with clothes. Instead of sitting down, she stepped over to the windows, noting that clouds were moving back in. “Did you sleep well?”

“Except for the pea, yes.”

“Oh, no, not another pea.”

“I'm beset by them whenever I'm away from my own bed. It's why I don't travel well.”

“Couldn't your Princess-ness find it and get rid of it?”

“Not unless I wanted to rip open the mattress in the middle of the night.”

“We can change rooms if you like.”

“I might be up for that.” Slipping the phone into the pocket of her robe, she sailed into the bathroom, snapped on the light and gingerly touched the mud mask.

“Want to look your best for the northern Minnesota moose population?”

“One would think
you
have a thing about moose.”

“Only because I know you're so fond of them.”

“Well, yes, if they're discriminating, then of course I want to
dazzle
the moose, the bears, the lions and tigers.”

Jane coughed into her fist. When it came to the natural world, Cordelia was less than encyclopedic in her general knowledge. Knowing it was impossible to disabuse her of her notion that the northern woods were lousy with elephant and zebra—after all, one forest was much like the next—Jane removed a red cape from a rustic log chair and sat down. The cushions were comfortable enough, although they weren't exactly like sinking into whipped cream. By the looks of the papers laid out on the coffee table, Cordelia had been busy with the script.

“All ready for tonight?”

“Boo-ya,” she shouted, giving a fist pump.

“In northern Minnesota, boo-ya is a stew.”

“I'm using it in the street sense of the term.” Removing a pair of Frye boots from the couch, Cordelia flopped down, stretched out and placed cucumber slices over her eyes. “You're coming to the theater tonight, of course.”

“If I won't be in the way.”

“I called the four people in the cast, reminded them that it's tech week. Initially, they weren't asked to come tonight, but I need to do a quick run-through with them—just a couple of scenes to get a sense for where they're at. And then we can start the dry tech.”

“Speak English. What's a dry tech?”

“You've been my intimate lo these many years and you don't know basic theater lingo?”

“Must have slipped my mind.”

“It's a rehearsal without the cast. All the tech people show up—the lighting designer, sound, set designer, stage manager, the entire crew—and we go through everything, from beginning to end, checking each cue in order. There are a few moving set pieces that we'll have to time and get right, thankfully not many. It takes a couple hours, depending.”