by Joanne Fluke
Michele stood in the doorway, staring. Brian’s living room was the strangest thing she’d ever seen.
Brian had painted the Newman Center on the wall facing First Avenue, complete with a priest opening the door. She could see half of the real Newman Center through the uncurtained window, and the other half was reproduced on the wall inside. The opposite wall was painted like the alley with Brian’s Volvo station wagon in the driveway by the garage. The other two walls showed the houses next door. There were even students coming out of the frat house, wearing parkas and carrying books. It was just like being outside on a bright afternoon. The walls no longer existed.
“It’s kind of a shock at first. Brian calls it his definitive statement of outer reality.”
Greg arranged four pillows around the low circular table in the center of the room. People were always speechless the first time they saw the living room.
“I’ll get the coffee. Just pull up a pillow and sit down. We didn’t want any furniture in here to spoil the effect.”
Judith plunked down on a pillow and crossed her legs, Indian fashion. Steve and Michele sat opposite her.
“I don’t understand it, Steve. You know Brian didn’t start that fight. Why did you have to lock him up?”
“It wasn’t my decision. Herb Swanson insisted on pressing charges, and Norm Ostrander regained consciousness just long enough to back him up. It’s their word against Brian’s.”
“But it’s so stupid to accuse Brian of attacking them.” Greg came back from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. “I’m surprised he even defended himself. He almost flunked his karate class last summer.”
Steve poured amaretto into his coffee and sighed. “I don’t like it any better than you do, but I’ve got to hold Brian until the court sets bail. It’s the law.”
“It’s not that bad, Greg.” Michele held out her cup, and Steve poured a generous shot into her coffee. “Brian says he doesn’t mind spending the night in jail.”
Judith nodded. “I think jail’s the safest place for Brian right now. Herb and Norm belong to the Defenders of Decency. When those rednecks find out about the fight, they’ll be hell-bent on revenge.”
“We’ve been battling the Defenders of Decency ever since the clinic opened,” Michele said. “And they tried to stop WinterGame. Do you suppose this had anything to do with Brian’s advertisement on television?”
“It’s possible.” Steve nodded. “Let me call the hospital and see how Norm is doing.”
In a few moments Steve was back. He looked grim.
“Norm’s in critical condition. That means we’d better find a good lawyer right away. Brian’s facing a possible charge of manslaughter.”
Michele got up and headed for the phone. “I’ll call Dale Kline.”
“Dale Kline?” Judith looked shocked. “He’s the most expensive lawyer in town.”
“I think I can talk him into taking Brian’s case for free. Believe me, Judith. Dale Kline owes me one.”
CHAPTER 6
Bishop Donahue readjusted a white pawn so that it sat in the exact center of its square. Sister Kate’s curiosity must have gotten the best of her this morning when she checked his room. The books on his desk had been moved, and he was sure she had touched his white pawn. He had known it would happen sooner or later. Sister Kate was very impressed with religious artifacts and relics. This chess set was definitely an antique, but Bishop Donahue doubted that it had actually belonged to St. Thomas Aquinas. If one took the Italian art dealers at their word, St. Thomas had owned at least a dozen carved chess sets for every year of his life.
Chess had served Bishop Donahue well in his time at the Vatican. It was a favorite pastime of the clergy, and Cardinal Rossini had taught him to anticipate the complicated permutations of each small move on the board. An orderly mind was the key to the game.
A snowplow rumbled past on East Lake Boulevard, and Bishop Donahue glanced at the clock on his desk. It was past two in the morning. The snow removal crews were working overtime now that the snow had stopped falling. The major streets would be plowed by the time the sun came up.
The streetlight in the center of Lake George Park cast a bright glow over the unbroken sheet of white snow. It had been broken since last summer, but no one had bothered to fix it until this afternoon. City Hall must have been flooded with complaints after Ray Perini’s death. Sometimes it took a drastic act for people to notice what was wrong around them.
Deliberately the bishop cleared his mind. This was not the time to dwell on the fate of the Black Pawn. Ray Perini had been captured. It was a necessary part of the game. Now it was Black’s move, and Bishop Donahue must be ready to counter the inevitable attack.
In less than an hour he had explored the possibilities. Black’s next move would be revealed to him on the news tomorrow. Bishop Donahue was fully prepared.
Michele closed her eyes and curled up in a ball, but that made her back ache. She’d never been able to sleep on her side. She tried turning over on her stomach, but then there was nowhere to put her arms, and she couldn’t breathe with her nose buried in the mattress. If she turned her head so she could breathe, her neck hurt. If she slid down in bed to raise her arms over her head, her feet stuck out from the blankets. There were too many parts of the body, that was the trouble. It was impossible to arrange everything in a comfortable position.
Michele shivered and pulled the blankets more closely around her. The romantic evening she’d planned had turned to disaster, but it wasn’t Steve’s fault. Before he’d left, he’d asked her to meet him for breakfast at ten.
Her bedroom faced the street, and Michele heard a car drive past outside, tires muffled by the blanket of snow that had fallen. The courthouse clock chimed three times. It was three in the morning, and she had to be up at seven. Michele had never had trouble getting to sleep before the divorce. Her classmates in premed had admired her ability to catch forty winks on a break between classes, curled up in a plastic chair in the lounge. Now things were different. Dereck had given her something besides the divorce: insomnia.
She really had to get some sleep. Michele decided to try the trick that Louise had suggested. Before Louise had taken the job at the clinic, she had worked in the children’s ward at the hospital. She said she’d told stories about sleepy baby animals to her young patients when they were restless at night.
Michele felt a little foolish as she pictured a family of baby birds, chirping softly in the warmth of their nest. Now the mother bird was settling down to protect her babies as they slept.
They huddled close to her, warmed by her soft downy feathers. It was a charming image, but it didn’t make her sleepy.
Perhaps rabbits would do it. Michele pictured five baby bunnies, curled up tightly in their nest. Or did they live in burrows? Maybe she’d better stick to things she knew. Badgers lived in burrows, but Michele always got them mixed up with woodchucks. A woodchuck was another name for a groundhog. That reminded Michele of Groundhog Day. Last Sunday had been the second of February, and Minnesotans always celebrated when the skies were gray on Groundhog Day. If the groundhog came out of its burrow and saw its shadow, there would be six more weeks of winter.
Michele sat up and switched on the light. She was wide-awake. It was a good time to write a letter to her mother. Her mother expected a weekly letter and a phone call on Sunday. She didn’t seem to mind if the contents of both were the same.
The bedroom floor was cold, and Michele felt around under the bed for the orange wool socks she used as slippers. They weren’t in their usual place. She sighed as she remembered throwing them in the laundry basket when she’d straightened up the apartment. Steve probably wouldn’t have noticed, but she’d wanted to be sure everything was perfect. Just as she’d anticipated, Steve had insisted on checking every room to make sure it was safe when he brought her home. He had confessed it was probably unnecessary, but her apartment was only seven blocks from the place where Ray had been killed. Michel
e was flattered by his concern. It had dampened her enthusiasm only slightly when he did a quick walk-through and then said his good-byes in the hallway outside.
Michele hopped from throw rug to throw rug until she reached the living-room carpet. Hardwood floors were beautiful, but they were cold in the winter. Perhaps she ought to think about carpeting the bedroom.
The fireplace was ready to light. Michele had arranged everything before she met Steve just in case she decided to ask him in for coffee after their date. She struck a match and watched the kindling catch fire. Cords of wood were cheap in Minnesota, and there was no reason why she couldn’t enjoy her fireplace alone.
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was already in the tape deck. Michele switched it on and adjusted the volume. She wished she could remember which cut was “Winter,” but it didn’t really matter. No one had ever written music that sounded like winter in Minnesota. Who’d want to listen to howling winds and sleet rattling against the windows?
Michele got a Diet Coke from the kitchen and grabbed the half-finished bag of Doritos that was hidden behind the couch. She settled down with her pen and paper and tried to think. Should she tell her mother the truth about her date with Steve?
Dear Mom. Tonight I dated St. Cloud’s most eligible man. First we went to a WinterGame committee meeting. That’s the group of lesbians, homosexuals, and abortionists I told you about. After the meeting we planned to go out for drinks, but one of my gay friends got busted for nearly killing a local man. I had to blackmail the town’s leading lawyer into taking the case but that wasn’t difficult because he got his daughter pregnant and he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.
Michele laughed out loud as she pictured her mother’s reaction. She’d be here on the next plane from Houston to help Michele pack her belongings.
Suddenly Michele felt sleepy. She leaned back against the couch pillows and shut her eyes. The heat from the fire was warm against her cheek, like Steve’s lips when he’d kissed her good night at the door. Snow fell softly against the window, a light brushing sigh that matched her deep, even breathing. Michele fell asleep wondering what could possibly go wrong at breakfast.
Margaret Whitworth closed the notebook with a snap. The courthouse clock chimed the half hour, and Margaret glanced at her watch. It was three-thirty in the morning. She’d spent the whole evening rereading her notebooks, the private little lists she kept of odd phrases and names. Margaret was fascinated by the English language, and she’d kept notebooks for years, stacked in a pile under the table by the bed. Howard had complained that she was wasting her time compiling lists that no one would ever read, but Margaret enjoyed her little hobby. And the new list that she’d started last week was already one of her favorites. By the time she was through, it would be filled with names that fitted a person’s profession. “Goodbody Mortuary” headed the list. It was a large undertaking firm in San Diego. Then there was “Doctor Morte,” a pathologist at the Mayo Clinic. He’d appeared in a news clip last Tuesday. And this afternoon, right here in St. Cloud, she’d spotted the best one of all, “Dr. Pull, D.D.S.” He had an office above Dan Marsh Drugs. Margaret knew she’d walked past the building directory for years without noticing his name.
Margaret took off her reading glasses and slipped them into the case. She was tired, and she might just break tradition tomorrow. The world wouldn’t fall apart if she didn’t show up at her office until noon. She was beginning to appreciate the concept of self-indulgence. At her age she deserved to take a little time off and enjoy herself.
Howard would have been shocked at her attitude. Margaret smiled as she clicked off the light. He had always been immersed in his work. Even when she’d dragged him to France on vacation, he’d taken along his briefcase filled with papers.
Margaret’s smile grew as she remembered strolling down the Champs-Élysées and stopping at a sidewalk café to enjoy a glass of Pernod. Several handsome Frenchmen had made overtures, and she almost wished that she’d encouraged them. Howard had spent the entire vacation in their hotel room making transatlantic business calls. No wonder he hadn’t liked Paris.
There were six pillows on the bed. Margaret reached for her favorite and hugged it tightly. She never thought she’d miss Howard’s rattling snores, but she did. Perhaps women weren’t made to sleep alone. The bed was too big and too cold.
Jane had been saving money for a heated water bed. She’d shown Margaret the brochures. Perhaps it wasn’t such a silly idea after all. Margaret laughed out loud as she made up her mind. She’d call in the morning and order the best one in the showroom. Even slightly-past-middle-age ladies had the right to a warm bed.
Steve settled down on Chief Schultz’s couch and propped his feet up on the end. The couch was too small to accommodate his six-foot-three-inch frame, but he could sleep anywhere when he was tired. No one expected him to spend the night in the office, but Steve wanted to stay close just in case something else broke loose tonight.
Brian Nordstrom was doing all right, considering what he’d been through. Steve had checked on him earlier, and Brian had been full of ideas about making the jail more hospitable. Steve chuckled as he remembered Brian’s plan of painting the cots and commodes forest green with panoramic nature scenes on the walls of the cells. If he made the jail too comfortable, people would commit crimes just to get in.
Brian had some strange ideas, but he seemed like a nice guy. So did his roommate, Greg. Steve liked both of them just fine as long as he didn’t think about what they did together in bed. Maybe he liked women too well even to think about any other possibilities.
Michele. A grin spread across Steve’s face. She was sexy and smart, an unbeatable combination. He’d spent all afternoon looking forward to their date, and he hadn’t thought of Diane once. That was a record. What Steve had assumed was a permanent pain might prove to be temporary after all.
Steve closed his eyes and imagined what might have happened tonight. He almost wished he’d taken Michele up on her invitation for a nightcap, but it had been past one by the time they’d left Brian’s, and he’d been anxious to check in at the station. At least he’d had the presence of mind to ask her out for breakfast after their date had been blown all to hell.
The courthouse clock chimed four, and Steve imagined the hands of a clock, slowly turning until they reached seven-thirty. Three and a half hours away. On the dot of seven-thirty he’d wake up. It worked every time. Steve called his system the brain clock. He imagined the minutes ticking away as he dropped off to sleep. Only five hours and fifty-eight minutes before he saw Michele again.
CHAPTER 7
“That’s a wrap, Michele. It looked fine from here. If you want to wait around, we can run it for you.”
Michele hoped the rumor about television’s adding ten pounds wasn’t true. She really wanted to see what she looked like, but she was already late for breakfast with Steve.
“Thanks, Kevin, but I’m rushed for time. I’ll watch it when it airs.”
Kevin Reilly was Margaret Whitworth’s right-hand man at the station. He had a shock of red hair and freckles to match. Everyone swore he was a miracle worker, and Michele was tempted to ask him to substitute a gorgeous actress’s body for hers.
Michele stepped carefully over the cables and hurried to the green room to get her purse. She was just slipping into her jacket when Dale Kline rushed in. He looked very uncomfortable when he saw her.
“Good morning, Dale.” Michele looked around, but there was no one else in earshot. “I put Cindy on the executive express to the airport.”
Dale nodded. He looked very relieved.
“Uh . . . Michele? I told everybody I was sending Cindy to boarding school so she could get a better background in science. Does that sound all right to you?”
“Fine, Dale.” Michele smiled. She could afford to be magnanimous now that the problem was solved.
“Brian’s case is shaping up, Michele. Right after I got him out on bail, Mrs. Whitworth called me. She wa
nts an interview on News at Noon. I figure Brian can use all the favorable publicity he can get.”
As Dale straightened his tie in front of the mirror, Michele noticed that he had dressed for the interview. Brown suit, beige shirt, and a muted plaid tie. He looked like a successful, extremely conservative lawyer. It was a real change from the sweater and chinos he’d been wearing at the office yesterday.
“I don’t think we’ll have any major problems. No judge in his right mind’ll believe that a little guy like Brian attacked two great big thugs like Herb and Norm. I’m trying to get Judge Wozniac. He put Norm away for six weeks last year. One count of drunk and disorderly, three counts of destruction of public property, and a DUI. All we need are a couple of good character witnesses for Brian. Men that look macho, with wives and kids, if you know what I mean.”
“Is there anything new with Norm Ostrander?”
“He’s still on the critical list, but I wouldn’t worry about it. Guys like Norm are too mean to die. He’ll probably be out picking another fight before Brian even comes to trial.”
“I hope you’re right.” Michele zipped her jacket and moved toward the door. “Give a good interview, Dale. I’m counting on you.”
It was a little past ten when Michele got to Dan Marsh’s Coffee Shop. Steve was saving a booth in the back. Michele hung her jacket on a hook and slid across the red plastic cushions.
“Sorry I’m running late, Steve. Have you been waiting long?”
“Just long enough to order you a hot caramel roll and a cup of coffee. You look great, Michele. I expected you to have dark circles under your eyes.”
Michele felt her cheeks warm in a blush. It was a good thing Steve hadn’t seen her earlier. It had taken two coats of foundation to cover the circles Steve had expected, but she certainly didn’t have to tell him that.