Tales From The Loon Town Cafe

by Dennis Frahmann

  “Why?”

  “What with all that’s happened to Rueben Cord. I just drove up from Emeryville. It’s been the talk of the town all morning.”

  “What’s the damn fool done now?” Red wanted to know.

  Gilbert seemed surprised. “You don’t know, do you? Someone murdered the poor man. They found his body today in his apartment. Water was running from his kitchen sink and flowing out the apartment door. That’s how they found him, because of the complaints of the water. Otherwise, he might still be there, rotting away. And they say he wasn’t just murdered. They called it a scalping.” Gilbert was enjoying his moment in the sun.

  “Are you certain we’re talking about Rueben Cord, my butcher? I was just talking to him last night when he got off work.”

  Gilbert continued. “But let me tell you the interesting thing. He really was scalped. That ponytail of his was missing from the crime site. I heard this directly from the investigating deputy himself. The man was at the hospital cafeteria begging a donut while I was there on a sales call. The morgue for the county is at the hospital, you see.”

  “Daddy,” Cynthia said tentatively, “you should go back to work and let everyone know what’s happened. People liked Rueben.”

  Red Trueheart seemed uncertain of what to do. He stood up, reaching for his heavy coat, which he had earlier thrown on the stool beside him. He looked at his daughter and then at Gilbert. “Murdered.” He seemed stunned. Red was walking to the door. Gilbert picked up his sample kit and rushed after him. “Red as long as you’re here, can we talk about some of the new lines I’m carrying. I think they’d be perfect for your store.” Red looked at Gilbert as though he were mad. Red walked out the door, with his heavy coat not yet buttoned and Gilbert snapping at his heels.

  Thelma walked out from the kitchen. She had overdone her makeup with fresh lipstick and a heavy dose of rouge. “Where’s Gilbert?”

  Josh replied wickedly, “He found a bigger fish to catch.” Thelma’s rouge seemed to pale.

  Josh turned to Danny. “Why don’t we go ice skating now? If we hang around here, we’ll just get depressed about this Rueben story.”

  Claire suddenly spoke up. “Arthur’s trying to tell us something. That’s why he came to Cynthia during that cold winter when she was so small. That’s why he sent his dog today, on another cold winter day. He wants us to know he’s okay.”

  “Arthur fell through the ice while skating in January when Claire was still a small girl,” Mr. Packer said softly.

  “He knows I’ve been worrying all these years. He wants me to stop worrying. That’s why the dog is here. It’s his messenger from the other side.

  “Arthur,” she shouted up to the sky, “I know you’re okay now, and I won’t worry anymore. You can take your dog and go.”

  Cynthia hugged Claire in an enormous embrace, who then broke into furious sobs. Bromley stood nearby, rocking from foot to foot. Danny and Josh looked anxiously at one another, ready to flee, and I signaled with my eyes permission to leave.

  I also noticed something else. The collie was gone, with no sign of a dog ever having sat in the snowbanks, no dog smears of his face pressed against the plate glass, no tracks in the snow.

  As though the collie had never existed.

  chapter fifteen

  The ice spread out before us like a mirrored plane. The sun, already low in the western sky, cast a bluish light through the leafless trees lining the flowage banks. Four figures that might in another setting have seemed prankish elves slipped and glided across the frozen river. Even in his thickly padded, black snowmobile suit, Danny appeared tall and thin. He moved across the ice with a surprising grace. All of the anxiety, tension and self-doubt that normally encircled him vanished. Somehow, somewhere, Josh had managed to find a suit for himself that captured his puckish spirit. Swirls of color raced around his legs and broke into a garish bloom across his back. No one could help but notice him, however far the distance. His skating might have matched the grace of Danny, except he tried to make each push across the ice as grand and theatrical as possible. Cynthia’s baby pink suit, padded and quilted more than the others, managed to make her seem even smaller and more petite. She had bright pink yarn tassels on her skates. I had been forced to borrow from Josh his dead father’s snowmobile suit.

  After their ice-skating the day before, Josh and Danny had convinced both Cynthia and me to join them for a second round. Business had been slow, so I thought to myself, “why not?” Now here I was nearly freezing to death despite wearing the dead man’s suit.

  With temperatures below zero, skating at any type of speed makes for severe wind chill. The snowmobile suit broke the wind and was well insulated. After all, it was designed to ward off wind chills encountered by people foolish enough to flit across snowbanks at fifty miles an hour. But the thought of wearing a dead man’s suit was discomfiting, even though none of the other three seemed to think anything of it. In fact, it had been Danny’s idea to call Josh and have him bring Mr. Gunderson’s suit. Danny had been so eager for my participation. He seemed to feel that if I didn’t go along that this trip would somehow be called off. Cynthia on the other hand would have been happier if both Josh and I had bowed out.

  A big fire burned on the bank of the bend. Being the worrier that I was, I made us gather the wood before skating, just in case someone fell in the ice and we needed to get them warm fast. Josh laughed at such fatalism.

  “Do you want to race?” Josh asked.

  “Sure, I’ll race you anywhere,” Danny quickly answered.

  “I don’t think I’ll join in,” I replied, feeling older than my years.

  Cynthia lifted the tip of her foot and dug the end of her skate’s runner into the ice, digging a little hole. “You guys can race. I’ll stay here near the fire with Wally and practice some figure skating.”

  Josh shrugged his shoulders, “All right then, we’ll race to the end of the second bend. Just you and me, kid. The two of us together.”

  “And I’ll let the winner kiss me,” said Cynthia.

  “Is that meant to be an incentive?” joked Josh.

  Cynthia put on a fake pout. She started the countdown, “Ready? Get set. Go!” And the two boys were off. Quick confident slides. They had a true style and grace. Cynthia began to skate forward, slowly, aimlessly. I sidled up beside her.

  “I don’t think Josh is good for Danny,” she finally said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because Josh is gay,” she said forcefully. “Danny’s not gay. Is he?”

  “I don’t know. Besides it’s not important what I think. It’s what Danny thinks.”

  Cynthia turned to me, more serious now. “Has he ever told you he was gay?”

  “No,” I replied. “Maybe he never will. First, he would have to tell himself. I don’t think that’s happened.”

  Cynthia continued skating listlessly in the direction of the racers. “I’ve always had a crush on Danny, but he’s never laughed with me. Not the way he does with Josh. He’s never really even noticed me.”

  The boys were far ahead of us, at least a quarter of a mile or so. The sun was sinking noticeably in the west. Pools of shadows were forming in the underbrush of the banks. Cynthia and I said nothing to one another, simply skating slowly. I wanted to reach out to Cynthia some way and make her feel more secure. But I didn’t know what action to take.

  The racers were nearing their finish line, racing at it neck and neck. Suddenly a huge cracking boomed in the air, as though a jet plane had broken the sound barrier. The sound so startled Danny that he slipped. He brushed against Josh, causing both of them to lose their balance. Suddenly they were tumbling down onto the ice.

  “Oh no,” cried Cynthia.

  But then the two were already getting to their feet, wobbling on their skates, and laughing uproariously. Each brushed the snow off one another and began circling around. They grabbed hands and swung one another in a circular ice dance, laughing more frantically as
they made one another dizzy. Soon, they crashed into one another and again tumbled to the ice. They just lay there laughing. Their peals echoed in the still air.

  “It was only the ice cracking,” Cynthia explained. “That’s what caused the boom. It happens on lakes all the time. Nothing important. It’s not important, is it?”

  She stopped. “What am I saying? I think he loves him. I mean Danny loves Josh. And Josh better not be using him. I’m going to make sure Josh treats Danny right.” With that, she began racing toward them, and I could tell that she was in fact a far better skater than either of the boys. Laughing, she raced right by the duo.

  The two boys tried to gather up some of the thin layer of loose snow on the ice and throw it at her. They missed. The powder sprinkled back to the ice. She rounded the bend and was hidden from our view.

  Then came a long, loud piercing scream. The boys scrambled to their feet and raced forward. I followed with as much speed as I could muster. Soon, I too was around the bend and found the three of them standing in a semi-circle looking at the frozen river. I slowed down and skated up to them. Josh and Danny both had their arms around Cynthia. They were all staring at the ice before them.

  I moved into their little circle to see what could have upset Cynthia so. Was it a dead animal? A hole in the ice.

  Nothing so dramatic. Simply a drawing. A heart in the ice etched in yellow. And in the center were the words “C.T.” and below that was signed the name “Kip.” There was an acrid smell in the air and the slightest wisps of steam still rose up from the heart.

  “I think he drew this by peeing,” said Danny in wonderment.

  “If he did, he’s got great control, and a hell of a bladder,” said Josh. “And how did he get here?”

  Cynthia said nothing. She was scanning the riverbanks and the river ahead, trying to see where Kip Van Elkind was lurking, fearing that he was nearby, poised for an attack.

  “I hate that guy with every bit of my being,” she proclaimed. “I hope Kip rots in hell. Do you hear me, Kip Van Elkind? Rot in hell!” she screamed with all of the frustration of the day.

  The week went on, with each day as cold as the one before. On Sunday, the after-church crowd was slim. Those that had dropped in were bundled up in flannels and woolens rather than in Sunday finery. Everyone was ordering the vegetable soup instead of a salad.

  By now, my menu had twice given in to Thread customs. The first concession to Friday night fish fries had been a no-brainer. The fish fry was popular, if not much of a moneymaker. It brought in the locals, even though they seldom ordered dessert or had much to drink.

  My other grudging accommodation had been to create a Sunday dinner menu. For locals, I offered a Sundays-only, family-oriented, all-you-can eat approach. No fancy appetizers. No separate price tag for a salad or soup. The meal started with a big relish tray: carrot and celery sticks, radishes cut as roses, olives, pickled herring, corn relish, pickled beets, and bread sticks. Quantity was the most important element, and I learned to set out a colorful and hearty tray at a modest price. Thelma had insisted that I needed to provide both a soup and a salad. I rebelled at this point. They had to think I was a bit different. So diners had to choose one or the other. On Sundays, there were none of my “city” soups. Cream of wild rice was out the door. It was chicken noodle or vegetable beef. And the salad was a simple one of iceberg lettuce, although sometimes I snuck in some bits of spinach and romaine. The main menu was also slimmed down to hearty meats: roast turkey, roast beef and baked ham with a raisin sauce. Needless to say, dessert in hefty portions was a substantial conclusion to every meal.

  Sunday had become my busiest day. A better businessman might have switched his menu for the rest of the week. But I liked the idea of serving a rabbit and wild mushroom terrine. Besides I hadn’t fled Manhattan to serve my Mom’s cooking day after day. Even Bromley showed up on Sundays to order a full dinner. Just now, he was attacking his apple pie a la mode. “Thelma makes the best pies in town,” he said.

  Bromley leaned back from the counter and looked out the windows at the bright sunny day that belied the bitter cold that was awaiting his departure. “Sure is frosty today,” he said. “The boiler went out at the school. Couldn’t keep up with heating the place. Have to close down the whole place tomorrow, maybe longer. Who knows how long it’ll take to get that god darn antique furnace fixed.”

  “I heard,” I said.

  “Should’ve bought a new furnace years ago. But the town can’t afford it. The state has got a clutch on this town you know. They don’t tolerate little schools like this anymore. They conspire to get us and Lattigo to consolidate into one district. Little Nazis down there in Madison. But as long I’m mayor, they’re not going to be bussing our kids to sit with Indians.”

  I nodded, “So, I’ve been told.”

  Bromley motioned me to come closer. “You hear a lot of things in this place, don’t you? People like to talk to you. What’ve you heard about those Lattigo lately?”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” I said quietly.

  The blustery overweight man eyed me skeptically. “Could be. Could be that no one’s talking much, but a man in my position hears things. Rumors. A lot of property has been changing hands lately in this county and especially in this township. Don’t think I’m an old fool who wouldn’t notice such things. Sophie Dodge checks things for me. She looks at the documents that get filed with the country clerk up in Timberton.

  “All these deeds, now, they seem to be sold to different people. No one you would know. Except for that Gunderson boy. The Lattigo, in the name of the reservation, bought his parent’s land. Strikes me as a bit suspicious.”

  I rose to return to the kitchen to help Thelma and didn’t bother to reply. Things were getting pretty busy. A lot of people had showed up after the Old World Lutheran Church service.

  “Stay put a minute,” commanded Bromley. “It’s not just the deeds. When you’ve been an important man as long as I have, people know you, they whisper things to you. Those Lattigo have our courts in their back pockets, I tell you. They’re getting exactly what they want. There’ll be trouble soon. They can’t go hunting or fishing whenever they want, and not expect our good people to get upset.”

  “How much damage would a little extra fishing do?”

  “It’s not just that. They’re stealing jobs from this town. Have you been to Lattigo town since you came back?”

  “Yes,” I replied calmly, “and the place could use some help.”

  “Did you see that new electronics plant? How did that get there? And how come all the jobs went to Indians in Lattigo?” Bromley was working himself into a frenzy.

  “Maybe because they live there, and maybe because the tribe owns the place,” I pointed out.

  Bromley hunkered down in a truly conspiratorial stance. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but they’re onto a really big deal.”

  “Really?” I said. My heart began to race. If Bromley knew about American Seasons, soon everyone in town would know.

  “I got it straight from Hank Johnson at the bank, who heard it from Tesla Haligent himself. The Lattigo are planning to buy up the woodworking plant here in town. I don’t know how they got the cash exactly, but I hear it’s some kind of deal they have with Haligent.”

  “Maybe it would be better to have local owners who care about the area?” I said. At least Bromley didn’t have a clue as to the real goings on.

  “And have Indians run our town? You got to be kidding!”

  “I need to lend Thelma a hand.”

  Back in the kitchen, Thelma looked gloriously happy in her big white apron and white chef’s cap. She lately started wearing a chef’s toque instead of a hairnet because Gilbert Ford had assured her it was sexy. Sundays were Thelma’s favorite day at the restaurant, because everything served was her kind of food and it made for an easy day. Since only roasts were being served, nothing was cooked to order. There was only slicing and arranging plates. Whatever m
eats were left over would be used for the sandwiches in the days ahead. Sundays were also the only days I let her make some of her favorite food–things like ambrosia salads heavy on maraschino cherries or coleslaw dripping with Miracle Whip.

  Where Thelma and I competed were in the desserts. A sensible person would have allowed Thelma to serve whatever she wanted, since she was prone to offering apple brown betty, berry cobblers and peach pies–the Thread tried and true. But desserts were my favored experiment. Since everyone who ate on Sundays received dessert as part of their meal ticket, we went through lots of sweets, making the day an ideal laboratory. Once I offered a flourless chocolate cake. I let loose a classic French dessert, floating islands of meringue in a custard. Both were failures, so I decided to return to Wisconsin flavors. How about a flan served with a maple syrup sauce? Only the Saturday out-of-town crowd adored it. After that I gave up and crowned Thelma the queen of Sundays desserts.

  Sundays were also the last day of our workweek. The Sunday dinner crowd was gone by two in the afternoon, and we closed up until Wednesday morning. I suspected that Thelma lately had an open date for a Sunday evening rendezvous with Gilbert. Although she never admitted it to me, it seemed odd that Gilbert Ford’s car was in town every Monday morning.

  All in all, Sundays always put Thelma in a marvelously good mood. “Need any help in here?” I asked.

  “Danny and I have it completely under control,” she smiled and nodded to the boy. Danny was filling small woven baskets with Thelma’s famous crescent rolls. They were one item that was a hit with any crowd.

  “Done any more ice skating, Danny?” I asked.

  “Yah,” he blushed, and then smiled. “It’s just great. The ice is so smooth and the river’s still completely free of snow. It’s like being in another world. Josh and I saw some deer and a bald eagle.”

  Back at the counter, Officer Campbell sat down next to Bromley. The two were deep in conversation. I tried to avoid them and make a tour of the other tables. But I wasn’t quick enough. Bromley noticed me and hissed for me to come over. “Officer Campbell was telling me about Rueben’s murder down in Emeryville.”