Page 14

14

FLORENCE

The police are here, and it’s got everyone quite excited. Poppy is on the sofa wrapped in a Little Mermaid blanket with Gus who she is giving licks of her jumbo candy cane stick, and everyone is doting on her while June sits on the floor in front of the rec room TV and watches a Teletubbies episode with Herb.

Mack is in the front office asking Detective Riley a lot of questions in an annoyed tone of voice. Apparently, she was in Fargo or some such place, heading to a roadside diner or something, I don’t really know all the details, but she raced back after she heard what happened to Shelby, and after the police left Shelby’s house, she stayed the night at the hospital with them. Rumor has it Billy Curran dropped her off and that has everyone talking, but it’s none of my business.

“This is outlandish,” Herb says, perched on the edge of an ottoman and pointing at the television. “These Teletubbies are totally inappropriate looking. I thought this was a children’s show.”

“Herb,” Millie warns from her spot at the puzzle table where she is quickly knitting a green pot holder to give to Detective Riley before he can leave.

“There’s no plot. Zero conflict. I mean, what the hell? They just jump around and make irritating noises.”

“Herb,” Mort says from his spot in front of the computer where he and Evan are working on selling ads on the podcast.

“Come on, June. You gotta be bored to shit. Curious George doesn’t even talk and he’s more interesting than this, right?” She nods in agreement. He switches it to Peppa Pig .

“Oh, see now. This is good. This is quality stuff,” he says, handing June a tube of ranch Pringles, which she takes and happily watches Peppa .

I try to listen to what Shelby and the police are talking about in the front office, but I can’t be too obvious, so I only walk over to the coffee station three times during their conversation and take my time stirring in the powdered creamer so I can strain my ears to hear. All I really understand is that they dismissed the electricity and generator being destroyed as teenagers, but now that Shelby has been attacked yet again and told them about the threat left on her car, they have now gone full swing on opening her case back up.

I suppose it’s a good thing, but they have come up with diddly-squat in all these months since the first attack, so I still think talking directly to people will be more effective than the police taking down a report, and then what? Someone out there knows something, and Detective Chipped Beef has a slim to zero chance of being the one to crack the case with the way they’ve handled it so far.

I take my time shuffling back over to my spot on the sofa. It’s a comfort having Gus and the girls here. Bernie came in with Shelby this morning when they released him, and he works on his crosswords while Millie knits and the TV murmurs in the background. The smell of tuna hotdish baking in the oven warms up the room, and it’s dark and overcast outside. Inside, a string of colored Christmas lights still hang limply over the board game bookcase and blinks. It’s a cozy, lovely moment with everyone here…except that there is a murderer on the loose ruining everyone’s good time.

After a little while I hear Mack say her goodbyes, and the detectives leave. Shelby comes out with a gray look on her face. Who can blame her? She was almost suffocated, and I’m not really sure why she even came in to the Oleander’s today except I guess I wouldn’t want to be alone at the house either if it were me, and sometimes distraction is the best medicine.

“Who wants to finger paint?” Shelby says, forcing an upbeat voice when she comes into the rec room. Herb raises his hand. “Not you, Herb. Come on, girls. Irene is gonna show you her watercolors and then we’ll finger paint in the craft room. What do you say?”

“Yeah!” Poppy says, kissing Gus on the forehead and popping up from her spot as if nothing at all has happened. Children are incredible that way. June follows close behind and they all disappear down the hall.

“Okay,” Mort says, startling me. “When we record tonight’s episode we want to lead with finding Leo’s name on the sign-in at the hospital. This will really rattle folks.” I might be mistaken but I think I see dollar signs in his eyes. He’s becoming uncharacteristically enthusiastic about the new income the podcast is generating and Mort’s Literary Musings is receiving more views by the hour.

“Bring it in, guys, bring it in,” Herb says as he pulls up a chair next to the computer desk, and I do so, but not without a roll of my eyes and a shake of my head at being told to “bring it in” like we’re in a locker room. I sit next to Millie at the puzzle table so we can all chat relatively privately.

“Of course it wasn’t Leo,” Millie says.

“Of course not,” Mort agrees. “Unless he was in some wild disguise and snuck in to kill Otis, but that seems far-fetched.”

“Or someone used his name,” I say. “To throw a monkey wrench in things if it were ever looked into—someone who had a reason to have Otis dead. Who in the world would want to hurt Otis Thorgard?”

“It makes more sense that it wasn’t Leo in disguise…because what if the person who killed Otis also killed Leo? They were in business together for years—what if this is money related?” Evan says.

“Oh, this is good,” Mort says, jotting down notes for the recording later.

“Otis and Leo were in business together—a few restaurants, but Leo was in business with damn near everyone at one point or another,” Bernie chimes in, his afghan on his legs and crossword still in hand.

“That’s true,” Evan says. “I even partnered with him for that first Pipers Pizza he opened the summer after high school. I mean, okay, he had a dozen other partners after that, and maybe a dozen people to have bad blood with him, so it might be money related, but where to even start?”

“God, I even got sucked into an Amway sales position he pitched me a few years ago,” Herb says and we all turn and stare at him. “I was looking to make a few bucks and it sounded good.”

“It’s a pyramid scheme,” I say, matter-of-factly.

“Well, I know that now, don’t I, Florence?” He stomps over to the kitchenette where he pulls the tuna hotdish from the small oven and scoops himself a large bowl before returning to his chair with a pout.

“Well, listen,” I say. “I don’t think we’re talking about small, transient things like Evan and half the class of ’94 going in on a pizza place twenty-five years ago for a summer…or a pyramid scheme,” I look to Herb shoveling hotdish into his mouth. “Who has real skin in the game—who lost something?” I think about how Leo always was a sucker for a get rich quick scheme—and it worked out for him…until it didn’t. Now it’s so much clearer, and I can see why that propensity turned into gambling when COVID hit and things started a downward turn and snowballed.

“Evan says he played pizza entrepreneur for a couple months way back when, and we all know how many other guys he tried to rope in before it all crumbled and didn’t work out, but eventually…he did well,” Herb says. “Everyone thought he was an arrogant nut, but he made a ton of money in the end. Otis was the only long-term partner besides that drunk guy that’s always at the Trout, what’s his name?”

“Miles,” Bernie says. “Poor soul.”

“Otis is a generation older than Leo’s school friends—he’s not one of the school friends he tried to use to turn a buck,” Mort adds. “Not a kid he paid in free beer and a pipe dream. Otis actually stayed and built up the business with him until Otis and his wife sold their half to Leo so they could retire and buy some campground on Lake Superior or wherever.”

“No bad blood,” Herb says. “So we’re back to where we started. Super. This is going nowhere. You want this episode to suck, Mort? We got nothin’. You know what we should do?”

“Oh God,” Millie mutters.

“We oughta get Riley to let us interview him.”

“For what?” Mort asks.

“He said he had three calls from random people just this week saying they thought they spotted Leo, and then Shelby told him it was probably because of our podcast.”

“Told you we should have a tip line—they’d be calling us instead,” I add. Herb ignores me and keeps on.

“Well, you saw Riley’s look when she explained how popular the podcast was. That guy will do anything for attention. He’d be all sweaty pits and stutters if he thought he was important enough to be interviewed for a viral show.” Herb cracks a Bud Light from the minifridge, takes a sip and then crosses his arms across his chest as if to say he’s now open to our response.

“I think you’re tooting our horn a bit hard, Herb,” I say.

“He does always seem to have a lot to prove,” Mort says thoughtfully.

“You know,” Evan swirls his wheely chair around and turns away from the computer. “I might be able to get some inside info—off the record, really see if they know anything. I mean, one cop to another. Former cop, but still…”

“Yeah,” Herb says, excitedly. “He always shakes Evan’s hand all firm and respectful and calls him ‘officer’ and ignores the rest of us. If anyone can gather intel, it’s probably Evan.”

“I didn’t get to give him his special gift,” Millie says out of nowhere.

“So?” Herb says,

“So I got the good yarn at Threaded Treasures. It’s Danish. So, yourself!”

“What’s the point, Millie?”

“The point is that I’m going too. Evan’s new here, why does he get to have all the fun? I say we all go.”

“I also think we should all go. It is called Mort’s Literary Musings,” Mort says.

“How could we forget.” Herb shakes his head and sips his beer.

“I think we all have to go too,” Evan says. “We gotta make him feel important. Bring the recording equipment, make a whole thing of it.”

“We don’t even know if he’ll agree to it, so we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I say.

“If Evan asks him, he’ll agree. He respects him. Thinks it’s a badge of honor that he got part of the side of his head blown off in the line of duty,” Herb says. “Sorry,” he adds, looking to Evan. “Chicks like scars and shit. It’s cool, if you ask me.”

Christ , I think. Herb just assumes Evan also thinks his injuries are a badge of honor and a chick magnet, but he is so indiscreet and baboon-like that he really doesn’t know if it’s a painful topic still or not…and good luck shutting him up before he puts his foot in his mouth.

Poor Evan doesn’t even have a whole ear anymore on his left side and has significant eye damage, but he always wears a cap, so you can’t really see the full impact. You forget after a while and get used to it. I quickly change the subject before Herb embarrasses us all more than usual.

“Evan, you should be the one to call and ask him, I think. It’s our best shot.” Everyone nods in agreement, and Herb scrolls through his phone for Riley’s number and mumbles something about having saved it for fifteen years and so he hopes it’s still the same number. And it is, and then he puts it on speaker mode and lets it ring and it’s all very dramatic as we hover around Herb’s phone shushing one another when he answers. Herb gives Evan a dramatic gesture to start speaking, and Evan appears put on the spot.

“Detective, it’s Evan Carmichael… Officer Carmichael.” They say their hellos and small talk before Herb gets impatient and gives him another “move it along” gesture.

“Say, you heard about the podcast we’re doing? We thought it would be good for people to hear directly from law enforcement—kind of like a press conference, in a way. Of course, only public, on-record type information, but a goodwill gesture that shows the police are handling whoever seems to be…” He pauses and Herb mouths “terrorizing.” Evan ignores this. “Whoever seems to be responsible for the recent attacks and threats.”

To my surprise, Riley tells us that he’s off duty tonight and his wife is going to the meat raffle at the VFW, so we can come over for a drink and he’d be happy to chat with us on our very popular podcast.

Before I know it we’re piled into the van, the whole gang of us singing along to Billy Joel and driving the black, icy roads over to Riley’s two-story near downtown Rivers Crossing.

“Whoa…ohh, ohh, ooh…” Millie starts, singing over everyone else. Herb took an hour trying to figure out which shareable snack would be appropriate for the occasion and somehow landed on caramel corn and spicy cashews. He holds them in his lap proudly and Mort pokes and taps at all of the audio equipment he carries in a Bartlett pear box from Aldi. Bernie sits quietly with his favorite afghan spread over his legs, the way I always see him in my mind. If someone said to me, “picture Bernie this second,” it would be what I’m looking at right now, a peaceful, meditative look across his face and the afghan his wife crocheted for him across his lap. He notices me staring and looks at me. I give him a wink and he winks back.

When we arrive and all of us old bats make our way over the icy drive with Evan’s help and without any fractured hips, we find ourselves in Riley’s basement where a roaring fire burns in the brick fireplace. He holds a lowball glass of whiskey and wears a thick woolen sweater. He welcomes us in, looking a bit surprised as one after another of us round the corner of the narrow staircase, and now there are six of us standing in his finished basement with its red carpet, shabby pool table, and plaid couches looking like everything you’d expect in a northern Minnesota lake town. Dated, endearingly tacky, full of warmth and wood paneling.

He offers us all drinks and we linger around the fireplace sipping on whiskey sours…except Evan, who’s driving and technically working still, holding a Diet Coke.

“This is for you,” Millie says proudly as she hands the detective a pot holder made of the good yarn from Threaded Treasures.

“Oh. For me?” he says, with the same confused look everyone has when she thrusts a square of knitted yarn at them.

“It’s a pot holder,” Herb says.

“It’s a prayer square,” Millie corrects.

“What the hell is a prayer square?” Herb asks.

“It’s blessed with a prayer and given as a symbol of love and goodwill,” she says.

“Oh, lovely, Millie. Thank you so much. Belinda will love it too.”

“I thought it was a pot holder.”

“Up yours, Herb,” she says with a dismissive wave, directing her attention back to Detective Riley and giving him googly eyes.

“I got a pan of Hamburger Helper sitting on the one you knit for me back home as we speak,” Herb adds, genuinely confused.

“Why don’t we all sit,” Mort suggests, and everyone finds a spot on the plaid couches except for Riley, who sits on the brick hearth of the fireplace.

“Nice place ya got here, Dennis,” Herb says. I see he’s pulling out the first name. I wonder if that’s a premeditated tactic to take him down a notch, but knowing Herb, probably not. He opens the canister of spicy cashews, takes a handful, and passes it around the room.

Dennis Riley is young enough to be Millie’s son, but apparently she can’t help herself and she has her chin resting in both palms, gazing at him. He’s a tall, heavy guy with ruddy cheeks and disproportionately small hands, and I just don’t see the appeal.

After a few minutes of small talk about how great the fried walleye is at the new sandwich grill in Duluth and how it’s been snowing for days and how Riley’s wife called and won six pork chops at the meat raffle tonight and how she’s his good luck charm, Mort finally gets impatient and moves to plug in the audio equipment and Evan helps him set up, making it look extra official.

The wind outside howls and rattles the drafty basement windows. Millie helps herself to a second drink and Herb gives Evan the nod that he should start. Evan nods back. He taps a cocktail spoon against the side of his raised Diet Coke can and we all quiet down and look in their direction, on the other side of the fireplace where the microphone is plugged in. Evan nervously sits down and taps it twice to make sure it’s on. Mort then places the mic and stand in the middle of us all to pick up everyone’s voice.

Evan begins reading the lines we gave him. I must admit, I thought he’d memorize some of the talking points and speak a bit more extemporaneously—he’s not exactly a natural.

“What we know,” he begins. “We’re here with Detective Riley of the Rivers Crossing Police Department to get some more information about the recent attacks that have occurred in our town. Detective, can you tell us a little bit about what you know so far?” he asks. The point of having Evan lead was that all of us are virtually invisible and Riley is a guy’s guy and would take things more seriously if this was Evan’s thing too and not just a bunch of nosy geezers playing armchair detective, but Riley looks flushed.

“Is this live?” he asks.

“No,” Mort says. “No, no. We will add all of the intro material and thank our sponsors and everything…then we will edit this down and polish it up so only the stuff you want to keep will air.” I think Mort about exploded with delight at saying the words “our sponsors.” He really is getting a big head about that.

“Well,” Riley starts. “We are doing our best to follow up on all leads. We are aware that people are anxious and concerned that they or their families could be in danger, but…”

“I’ll tell ya what we know so far,” I say, and Mort looks horrified that things are happening out of sequence, but who wants ten minutes of vague nonsense and filler words, really? This is all crap he already said on the news, and that’s not what we’re here for.

“We know that Shelby was threatened with a note and later attacked at the lake ice fishing, and again at her home. And so it’s implied in a roundabout way that there is no public threat and this is maybe a personal vendetta. But we also know that Otis Thorgard died under suspicious conditions—perhaps foul play—and might be connected to Shelby and the disappearance of Leo Connolly. Are you opening a search for Connolly again, since he should be a suspect in both the case of Otis and Shelby right now? Do you have any other suspects?”

“Ugh…” Riley takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dots the sweat on his forehead. “We’re looking at all potential suspects at this stage. All of this only just happened, and we are still dusting for prints and running DNA, so we’ll have more to announce on that soon,” he says, trying hard to recover and not spoil his moment in the spotlight. The whole gang is looking at me railroading Riley and going off plan, but I don’t slow down.

“I’m certain that when Winny Thorgard told you she suspected foul play in Otis’s death you did a full investigation, so you probably already saw this,” I continue, thrusting the hospital clipboard toward him. “So I’m wondering if you have any thoughts on Leo Connolly’s name on the visitor log for the night before Otis passed.” I see Riley’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows down a sip of his drink, pressing his lips together in a tight smile.

“Well, as you know, some things are confidential. But we are looking into all leads,” he says. And of course I know he’s never seen this, and I also can’t blame him for not taking Winny seriously when she announced out of nowhere that she suspected something was very wrong surrounding the circumstances of her husband’s death. Otis was quite ill, and who would think anyone on planet earth would have a beef with the dear man? I don’t hate Riley, and I don’t fault him entirely, because every clue does seem to lead to a dead end. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to back his ass firmly into a corner on a viral podcast so the whole world is watching how he handles things, and what he does next. My intent is to force him into action, but I hope it doesn’t backfire.

“If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” Riley says. “I hear Mr. Ruffins whining. I’ll just pop upstairs and let him out.” We all watch Riley turn the corner and disappear up the stairs.

“I didn’t hear Mr. Ruffins,” Millie says, and it’s clear she’s getting tipsy. “That’s a cute name, though,” she giggles. “Ruffins.” Everyone else is staring squarely at me.

“What?” I say, hand to heart.

“What the hell?” Herb yells, and I put my finger over my lips to shush him. Millie tugs on his sleeve and he sits back down.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper.

“So it was never your intention to get his actual perspective. You just wanted to…” Herb says, and then stops to come up with a word.

“Screw him!” Millie says, and we all shush her.

“I wouldn’t say that. Winny brought her suspicions to the police. He ignored her. Now it’s our turn…”

“This is not a good interview,” Herb interrupts.

“Well,” Mort says.

“Well what?” Herb says. “You’re railroading him. He’s not giving us anything.”

“Except perhaps soaring ratings when we edit this,” Bernie says, quietly plucking a stray thread from his afghan and eating a handful of the caramel corn Herb passed around, and understanding exactly what I’m doing.

“Well, let the man talk at least,” Herb grumbles.

“Of course,” I agree. Another statement from Riley saying that he is “looking into all leads” for the thousandth time on the record is all we’ll get out of this, but sure.

When Riley returns he pours himself another drink and asks if there is anything else we’d like to ask about, so Evan nicely asks him a few roundabout questions, making him feel important, which is all he really wants out of this. How many years have you been on the force? How are you handling tips that are coming in? And Riley gets to brag and talk about himself a bit even though he’s giving equally roundabout answers, but I already got what I came here for, so I’m ready to go anyway.

And then a very strange expression spreads across Herb’s face, and his eyes widen. For a moment I think he’s passing gas and trying to do so discreetly, but then he stands and says, “We gotta go!” so abruptly, and I still think that might be the reason. But then the look on his face morphs into something like fear, or panic if I’m reading him correctly, and we all begin standing and gathering our things.

“ Matlock starts at nine,” Millie says, and Riley says he understands completely and that it was a pleasure and genuinely thinks he came off well, which is fine by me. Evan helps Mort with his pear box of audio equipment and takes Bernie’s arm, carrying his afghan to the van.

We all sit in the freezing van and wait for it to warm up as it puffs smoke out of the tailpipe while Evan searches for a radio station to land on that will make everyone happy. I turn around in my seat and look at Herb, but before I can ask him why he wanted to run out of there so quickly I catch the deer in headlights look that’s still plastered across his face.

“You okay, Herb?” I ask gently, and Evan turns the radio down and looks back at us in the rearview mirror.

“Everyone okay?” he asks.

“What if he’s lying?” Herb asks.

“Who? Riley?” Mort says.

“About what?” Evan adds.

“What if he’s lying about all the supposed leads they’re tracking down and evidence they are looking at and…”

“Why? What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.

“Yeah, why would he do that?” Mort asks.

“Because…maybe he’s involved,” Herb says pulling a familiar-looking object from his coat pocket.

“What the hell is that?” Millie asks, squinting at it.

“I found it down the side of Riley’s couch,” Herb says, and before he even explains what it is, I recognize the telltale pink daffodil case.

“It’s Shelby’s missing phone.”