Vengeance Is Mine (8 page)

CHAPTER 10

Trish Hollenkamp finished the last bite of her dinner roll. It was a real treat to have unsalted butter again. Margaret's tastes were so Continental. Trish made sure that the monogrammed salad fork was placed in the socially correct position on her empty plate and pretended interest in the conversation around her. The addition of pine nuts to an otherwise traditional green salad was a nice sophisticated touch she'd have to remember.

“That looks gorgeous, Margaret. What is it?” Louise Gladke slipped on her glasses and peered at the entrée. She had intended to wear her new soft contact lenses tonight, but she couldn't seem to get used to them.

“Rack of lamb with raspberry sauce. I spent most of my life avoiding lamb until I realized it was the mint jelly I hated. There's some in that little silver side dish for anyone who wants it.”

“I'll try a little of each.” Louise took a generous spoonful of mint and a small dab of raspberry sauce.

“Oh, I'll have just the raspberry, please.” Trish smiled and passed the mint jelly on to Carol Berg. She wasn't about to take anything that Mrs. Whitworth didn't like even though she adored the taste of mint.

Carol took another helping of butter and spread it on her warm French roll. Then she reached for the individual salt shaker that sat next to her plate and sprinkled it liberally on top.

“This is delicious, Mrs. Whitworth! It's just like going out to the best restaurant in town.”

Trish winced. Carol's comparison was almost an insult. As far as Trish was concerned, there weren't any gourmet restaurants in St. Cloud. Poor Carol's tastes were definitely plebeian. She'd arrived with a bottle of homemade rhubarb wine as a hostess gift. At least Michele Layton had brought flowers. There was hope for her.

“Everything's perfect, Margaret.” Judith Dahlquist took another sip of wine and smiled at her hostess. “Are you sure you're not planning a new show?
Cooking with Maggie
?”

Trish thought she would die of embarrassment. How could Judith be so gauche? Calling Mrs. Whitworth
Maggie
was almost sacrilegious.

Judith's comment didn't seem to faze Margaret in the slightest. “I'll do
Cooking with Maggie
when you do
Judy Paints by the Numbers
.”

“That would earn top ratings in St. Cloud.” Judith laughed and helped herself to more spinach soufflé. “Just think of the resources you have right in this room, Margaret. We could each have a series.”

“Not a bad idea.” Margaret looked thoughtful. “Carol could give a daily list of the accidents on the Ring Road. Louise? How about
Disease of the Week
? Trish will be the resident expert on local politics. And Michele? Oh, dear. We'll have to be careful not to offend anyone. How about
Successful Catholic Birth Control
?”

Michele spoke without thinking. “That'll be the shortest series in history. There's only one approved method. You hold a St. Joseph aspirin tightly between both knees at all times.”

Trish coughed delicately into her linen napkin. She might have to change her mind about Michele. That comment bordered on being crude.

Margaret laughed. “That's wonderful, Michele. I wish I could use that one on the air.”

Even though Trish joined them in the laughter, she was thoroughly perplexed. Either Margaret was pretending amusement for the sake of her guests or Trish had completely misjudged her all these years.

 

 

Steve poured himself another half cup of coffee. He added three tablespoons of sugar and filled the mug with cream. He was about to make a salami and onion sandwich when he remembered that he was picking Michele up at ten-thirty. He wrapped the onion slice in foil and put it back in the refrigerator. He could always eat it later.

Pete was still scratching at the front door. The sound carried all the way back to the kitchen. Steve figured he'd have to refinish the door before he moved out of his apartment.

“Forget it, Pete. I just walked you ten minutes ago, and you're not going out again until tomorrow morning.”

Steve set his sandwich and coffee down on the end table and scooped up the miniature French poodle.

“I know it's frustrating, but you'll just have to control yourself. Here's a piece of salami for you. Maybe that'll take your mind off Brunhilda.”

Steve gave Pete a scratch behind the ears and set him down on the sofa. The people in the next apartment had a female St. Bernard, and Pete had developed delusions of grandeur.

 

 

The other tenants at the Oaks couldn't manage to hide their smiles when they saw a six-foot-three-inch cop walking a dog that could fit into a shoebox, but Steve had gotten over being embarrassed about it. He just told everyone that Pete was a German shepherd working undercover.

Pete had been Diane's dog. When they'd split up, she'd told him she was giving Pete to her parents. Steve had known how long that would last. Diane's parents had a gorgeous high rise, and they didn't like pets. Pete would have ended up at the pound in less than a week.

Pete had been Pierre then. He'd gone to the doggie beauty parlor twice a month and sported baby-blue silk bows over his ears. Steve had saved him from all that sissy stuff. Of course, there was nothing he could do about the miniature part, but Pete seemed to like his new name, and the bows and the rhinestone collar were long gone.

Steve finished his sandwich and drained his coffee mug. He was getting nowhere with his investigation. Of course, he'd checked out Michele's lead right away, but Vera Kline had been home with guests all evening. Then, when he found out that both murders were committed by the same person, Steve began to look for the connection. Plenty of people in town had hated Ray, but Dale Kline was well liked. The Defenders of Decency were the only possibility he hadn't scratched off his suspect list.

Pete seemed to be enjoying the man-size chunk of salami. It would keep him busy for a while. Steve pulled on his work gloves and unwound the coil of barbed wire he'd brought home with him. The murder weapon was heavy and shaped like a T. Steve's first guess had been a tire iron. The sharp points were baffling until he thought of barbed wire. A redneck might carry a roll of barbed wire in his truck, and a tire iron was standard equipment.

Steve had gone to Matthew Hall Lumber this afternoon to ask about barbed wire. The clerk called it “bob wore” and brought out a roll. Matthew Hall carried only the Wyoming Starburst pattern, six points to a cluster, two inches apart. The clerk mentioned that a lot of people had barbed-wire collections. He'd seen one with seventy-eight patterns mounted on a varnished piece of bird's eye maple at the Minnesota State Fair.

Jim Berg had been even more helpful. He'd invited Steve to drive out to his place. There was certain to be some barbed wire somewhere in the back of the garage. There might even be all seventy-eight varieties. The garage hadn't been cleaned out since his grandfather died.

Steve had pulled on his oldest jacket and braved Highway 15. Carol and Jim lived on the family farm, halfway between St. Cloud and Kimball. Carol had made a fresh pot of coffee, and they'd carried the steaming mugs out to the unheated garage.

After an hour of crawling over old furniture, they'd hit the jackpot. There were five rolls of barbed wire stuck behind Aunt Tillie's canning jars. Jim had snipped off some strands of the single-prong variety and stuffed them in an old Coburn's shopping bag. He'd looked positively trapped when Carol had insisted that he finish the job now that he'd started. The garage needed a good cleaning, and there might be some real collectibles in those piles of junk.

Steve used pliers to hold the wire while he wrapped it around the end of the tire iron. Dale Kline's murder had him completely baffled. His initial suspicions about the Mafia could still be correct. Dale had handled quite a bit of Ray Perini's legal work. It was possible they'd been involved in some sort of scam together. It was the strongest tie between the two men, and Henry Corliss was positive that the same weapon had been used in both murders. It all tied together, but Steve wasn't satisfied. Why would a hit man bludgeon Ray and Dale to death when guns with silencers were readily available?

The college kids upstairs had their stereo on full blast, and the bass notes came through the ceiling loud and clear. It was impossible to tell which album they were playing. They all had the same rhythm.
Boom, baboom boom, boom baboom boom.

Pete whimpered and scratched at his ears. He didn't like rock music. Steve got out his Walkman and patched in an extra set of earphones. Pete enjoyed Steve's environmental tapes. His favorite was
A Rainy Day on the Farm.

“Come here, Pete.” Steve snapped his fingers. Pete came running, dragging his chunk of salami with him.

“The lamb's coming up in just a minute.”

Steve adjusted the earphones to Pete's small head and watched as he settled down to listen. The tape was a recording made during an actual rainy day, with cows mooing and raindrops pattering against the roof of a barn. Pete liked the part where the lamb bleated. He always wagged his tail.

An hour later Steve gave up his effort. He'd wrapped the wire around the tire iron in every conceivable way, but he hadn't come up with anything that approximated three sharp points a half inch apart. Of course, he still had to check into the other patterns of barbed wire, but it looked as if he'd better come up with another idea for the murder weapon.

Steve took off his earphones and stuffed the barbed wire back into the shopping bag. He put it up on top of the television where Pete couldn't get into it.

All was quiet upstairs. Steve glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. When he'd been in college, he'd spent Sunday nights studying, but the kids upstairs seemed to do very little of that. They must have gone out to a party.

“Guess I'd better get ready to go, Pete.” Steve took off Pete's earphones and put them away. “Do you want me to bring a friend home with me? Her name is Michele. You'll like her.”

Pete's tail thumped against the floor. Then his ears perked up as a rhythmic squeaking came from the apartment above.

“I wonder when they study.” Steve shook his head. “C'mon, Pete. I'd better take you out for a walk before you get any more ideas about Brunhilda.”

 

 

The four-story city parking structure was practically deserted as Les pulled his Lincoln into a space on the lower level. He was a little nervous as he got out of his car, even though the banks of fluorescent lights illuminated every corner. He'd stop at the Tattletale Bar and have a drink with the locals. If people saw the mayor wasn't afraid to walk the streets at night, they'd feel reassured.

Les turned up his collar and dashed across the street. It was cold tonight. He wished he could wear his favorite parka with the rabbit-fur collar, but it was getting a little mangy, and Trish said it wasn't good for his image. The mayor of St. Cloud should always dress in a topcoat and hat.

“What'll you have, Mr. Mayor?” Pat Krueger grinned as Les stamped the snow off his shoes at the door and walked toward the long mahogany bar.

“Careful of that stool on the end. Tony Getz broke it last night.”

“A Cutty and soda, I guess. Make it light, Pat.”

“I've got a good one for you, Les. One of those opticians from the convention told it to me last night.”

Pat upended a bottle of Cutty Sark over a glass filled with ice. Then he spritzed it with soda, flipped a Hamm's beer coaster onto the bar, and set Les's drink down in front of him. The whole procedure didn't take more than five seconds. Pat was the fastest bartender in town.

Les picked up the glass and took a cautious sip. It was just as strong as it looked. People always thought they were doing him a favor when they mixed heavy drinks. He wouldn't be able to cover more than three bars at this rate.

“Guy walks into a bar and sits on a stool. ‘Gimme a Grain Belt!' The bartender says, ‘Sorry, we're all out of Grain Belt.' The guy says, ‘That's okay, I'll pay double.' The bartender says, ‘Maybe you didn't hear me. We're all out of Grain Belt.' The guy nods. ‘Yeah, I heard you. I'll pay triple.'”

Les grinned. This was going to be good. Pat had a million jokes, and everybody in town thought he was funnier than Johnny Carson.

“Okay, now the bartender is starting to get mad, see? He doesn't have any Grain Belt, and this guy doesn't seem to understand. He says, ‘Tell you what, mister. Spell Bud, like in Budweiser.' The guy goes, ‘B-U-D.' Then the bartender says, ‘Spell soda. Like in Scotch and soda.' The guy goes, ‘S-O-D-A.' The bartender says, ‘Now spell frig, like in Grain Belt.' The guy goes, ‘F-R-I-G—Hey wait a minute. There's no frig in Grain Belt.' The bartender says, ‘That's what I been trying to tell you. There's no friggin' Grain Belt.'”

“Oh, God. That's a good one.” Les laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief. “I bet you've been telling that all night.”

“Nobody's been in except a couple tablefuls of college kids. Those murders sure killed business, no pun intended.”

Pat leaned across the bar even though Les was the only customer. “I brought my Beretta to work with me tonight. I don't give a damn if it's illegal or not. And I made Barbie put that little twenty-five I bought her for Christmas in her purse. Hey, what's the scoop, Les? You think that new cop is gonna catch the killer soon?”

“He's a good man, Pat. Came with the highest recommendations from the Minneapolis PD. I have every reason to believe an arrest is imminent.”