In a flash, we were invited inside. The front room was dark, Mrs. Mick explained, so no stray lights tainted the “holiday experience” outside.
Before I knew what was happening, we were lined up on benches around a large kitchen table. The room smelled faintly of burnt cookies and lemon cleaner.
As Mrs. Mick hustled around making hot chocolate, Eddy briefly introduced us and proceeded to pepper the woman with questions about why she hadn’t been to any Knitter meetings recently. Apparently Mrs. Mick’s youngest daughter had recently had a kid. After the requisite oohing and ahhing at pictures in a baby book, and listening to a rapid rundown of the status of each of the four Simon kids, Eddy asked, “Where’s Mick?”
Mrs. Mick said, “I haven’t seen much of him for the last two days. He’s probably at the Vulcan warehouse in St. Paul working on something for the carnival. He gets a bit over-focused this time of year.”
Mrs. Mick plunked a mug with steaming, frothy liquid in front of JT, who said, “Thank you, Mrs. Simon—”
“Please, it’s Leona.”
“Leona,” JT began again, “have you seen or spoken with Pete recently?” JT pointed at me. “Shay’s dad?”
“Petey? Oh.” Leona’s features rearranged themselves into a thoughtful expression. “No, I can’t say that I have. Why?” She finished doling out the drinks and settled herself into an armchair at one end of the table. If she thought it odd we were paying her a visit this late, she didn’t show it. However, I felt a little like we were in the middle of some crazy Twilight Zone episode.
I said, “My dad is having some … ” I searched for the right word. “Problems. I was hoping he might have said something to Mick about what the trouble was.”
Leona noisily slurped her beverage and plucked a napkin from a holder in the middle of the table to dab at the corners of her mouth. “Mick hasn’t mentioned anything to me.” Leona’s brows drew together, and the tip of her tongue poked out the side of her mouth. She said, “Come to think of it, a couple of months ago, Mick did tell me that Pete was having some issues at the bar.” She squinched an eye shut and tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “What was it he said? Something about Petey and money. Repairs Petey needed to do at the bar, I think.”
Coop said, “Did he say what the repairs were?”
Leona shook her head. “No, he didn’t specify. Mick told me he offered to float Petey a loan, but the ‘goddamned drunk’ turned him down flat.” Her words slammed to a screeching halt and her hands fluttered like out of control fireflies. She gave me a wide-eyed look of alarm. “Sorry, Shay, dear—that’s just what Mick said. You know how those boys can be.”
“No offense taken,” I mumbled.
“In fact,” she said, “I think they argued about it. Mick felt whatever had to be repaired—I do admit I wasn’t exactly paying attention when he got going—was serious, and Petey’s pride got in the way. My Mick was pretty riled up after that conversation.”
Yup, that sounded like my father. I wondered, too, exactly how mad Mick had been. I couldn’t see him hurting anyone, but you never knew what could happen when you added booze, gambling, stress, and testosterone.
“That Peter,” Eddy said. “He’s a hard-headed man. You think you could have Mick call Shay when he gets a chance?”
Good thinking, Eddy. One more stop and we could call it a night.
“Why, sure I can have Mick call you.” Leona patted my hand and rocked herself to gather momentum. After three back-and-forths, she made it to her feet and shuffled over to the counter for a pad of paper and a pencil, which she set in front of me. I swallowed the last of my hot chocolate and jotted down my number.
After a long Minnesota farewell that involved hugs, a couple of bathroom breaks, chatting, more hugs, more chatting, another bathroom break by someone else, and a final round of hugs, we trudged back to the Escape and huddled inside as I fired up the engine.
My entire body shook from the cold. Though we’d been inside talking to Leona, the chill had still managed to seep under my skin. When I hit the frigid air outside, my back muscles tensed, practically spasming. They went into lockdown until the seat warmer kicked in and they started to thaw out. The older I got, the more I realized I was growing tired of the long Minnesota winters, even with the distraction broomball provided. Sad.
On to Poker Buddy 4: Limpy Dick’s shack. Then home to bed.
After a fill-the-gas-tank pit stop, which included a fast smoke break for Coop, we were back on the road. I caught 94 and headed toward the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. From there we headed north, paralleling the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River. Before long, we cruised through Stillwater, a scenic river town that clung to its main-street, hometown appeal. The artsy antiquing community drew huge crowds, especially in the summer.
Limpy Dick lived in a cabin on Highway 95 south of Marine on St. Croix. His given name was Richard Zaros, a second-generation Greek who loved his homemade ouzo and his privacy. He worked many years with my father, and they’d remained buddies after they both retired.
I vividly remembered Dick coming into the Leprechaun when I was a kid. He had a booming voice and a gentle disposition. One time I asked him if he was ever going to get married, and he said the river was his bride and that was all the partnership he needed. He was a little odd, and sometimes I wondered if he was that way before or only after he lost his various appendages.
After the accident that claimed his leg, Dick called it quits with a sizeable settlement from the barge company and moved into the house on the St. Croix River that for years he’d used as a fishing shack.
For reasons I could never discern, rumors clung to Limpy Dick like seaweed on a crusty anchor. The most notorious backyard gossip was that he’d buried the settlement money in the basement of his shack. The man did have a quirky habit of staying up very late at night, sitting on his porch in a creaky old rocking chair, a loaded shotgun within easy reach.
I knew that was true because I occasionally stayed with Limpy Dick when my father was away doing god only knew what. Probably falling gracelessly off the wagon. Anyway, we’d sit on the porch under an inky, star-filled sky, and I’d listen, riveted, as he spun crazy river tales.
Then when he was busy sleeping the morning away, I’d quietly get up and chow on stale Rice Krispies he’d leave out for my breakfast and wonder why he didn’t worry that someone might try to come in and swipe his fortune in the daylight. Maybe he felt that the dark of night called the thieves but the light of day kept them away? Come to think of it, that’s the way it usually worked.
We were close to the half-mile drive leading to Dick’s shack. It snaked through the woods on the east side of the road. The need to pay close attention snapped me out of my reverie. The dirt, snow-covered driveway wasn’t marked well, and even in the day it was a challenge to find. In the darkness, it was going to be a bitch.
After two U-turns, I spotted the narrow opening in the trees. The forest rode close enough to the Escape that I felt claustrophobic. We bumped over the rutted, snow-packed lane, and I said, “I think it might be a good idea for me to go in first. I don’t want to startle Limpy Dick.”
“It is late, almost quarter to eleven,” JT said. “Probably a good idea.”
“That’s not what Shay’s worried about, child,” Eddy said.
“What do you mean?”
“Uh, yeah.” I bit my lip, heaved a whoosh of air. “He kind of has a tendency to meet visitors with double barrels.”
“What—oh.” I could imagine her dark brows drawing together. “Really?”
Coop said, “I haven’t met him either, but from the stories Shay and Eddy tell, it’s probably a good thing if Shay goes on ahead.”
“Why don’t we call him and let him know we’re here?” I could hear the frown in JT’s voice.
Eddy said, “’Cause that old fool doesn’t have a phone.”
&n
bsp; I pulled over to one side of the narrow trail a couple hundred yards from Limpy Dick’s shack and jammed the engine in park. Here the pines were so dense not a lick of light showed from the road, and we were still out of sight of the shack.
JT asked, “Why don’t you at least pull up to the house? Never mind. I don’t want to know, do I?”
I left the engine running and opened the door, letting a blast of frigid air invade the warm interior. “He doesn’t take too kindly to visitors. He’s got a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later.” I didn’t think JT was going to take that admission very well.
“WHAT?”
Nope, she didn’t take it well at all. I got out.
“Shay!” JT yowled. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you go in there and get shot.”
I secured my footing in the snow as I turned around. “It’s okay. When he hears it’s me, he won’t pull the trigger. Then I’ll call your cell to let you know to drive on in. Trust me.” I leaned in and gave her a quick peck.
Before she could further state her case, I said, “Stay here till I come back for you,” and slammed the door shut. Coop and Eddy would make sure JT stayed put.
I walked away from the Escape, wishing I’d thought to bring a flashlight. Oh well, the whiteness of the snow made the going somewhat easier. I followed the drive as it curved to the right, and soon the headlights from the Escape disappeared and the darkness swallowed me.
My heart always beat a little faster when I made this trek, and I hadn’t done it for years. I think the last time I’d been to the shack was when I’d graduated from college.
I marched along with my feet in a tire rut and my hands buried in the pockets of my jacket. As I walked I thought about my dad, wondered where he was, and what the hell was really going on. How had things come to this? I was so confused. A degree—okay, a small degree—of the anger that had been burning in my gut since Whale summoned me to the Lep on New Year’s Eve had lessened, but I was bewildered and disconcerted. So many things weren’t adding up.
It wasn’t too long before the edge of the shack came into view. There were no lights illuminating the yard. The windows were dark on the one side of the structure that was in my line of vision.
Most evenings (and well into most nights) Limpy Dick sat on his covered, unscreened porch in darkness made even deeper by the tall pines and deciduous trees that surrounded his battered homestead. Waiting. And watching.
All these years later he was probably still anticipating a visit from some dastardly hooligans who were going to rush his property and make an end run for his buried treasure. The man sat on that porch in the heat, in the cold, in the snow, in the rain. The only time the routine was broken was when he periodically left for supplies and a semi-monthly trek to the Leprechaun to play poker.
I navigated some particularly uneven footing and recalled that one time, Limpy Dick told me that if any of those nincompoops—his word, not mine—tried to break into his shack, there were plenty of surprises they’d run into before they even set foot over the threshold.
For the first time, rational thought seeped into my thick skull. This probably wasn’t the brightest idea I’d ever had. But then again, I didn’t have any other creative solutions brewing like a light bulb in the dark night, and I certainly didn’t want him taking a potshot at my new vehicle.
Nope, the time to act was now.
I figuratively girded my loins and literally cut off the trail into trees to my left. Cautiously I edged around the house, keeping a good fifty-foot cushion between it and me. The only sounds in the night were the rustling of the trees in the wind and the crunch of shin-deep snow that trickled over the tops of my shoes, turning my feet cold and damp. The iciness of the snow seared the skin above my ankles.
When I was close to what I judged to be the front of the house, I let rip a loud whistle. The call of a semi-sick whippoorwill bounced off the trees around me. I whistled again, sounding a little less like a choking duck, and edged forward until the porch came into view. It was too dark to see where Dick was, so I went ahead another ten feet and whippoorwilled again. This time the whistle was ear-piercing. I was impressed that particular ability came back so fast.
From the porch, I caught a shadowy movement.
BLAM! A bright flash and a thunderous explosion ripped from the shack. Bark chipped off trees next to me, stinging my cheek.
Apparently the whippoorwill no longer worked. I hit the deck with an “Oh shit!” My heart hammered as I pressed my cheek deep in the snow, waiting for the second explosion.
KA-BOOM!
Silence reclaimed the forest. I counted to three, propelled myself to my feet, and dodged forward and to the left. Limpy Dick had creatively placed stumps and rocks around his property as intruder deterrents and I swore I hit every one.
“Dick!” I screamed as I skinned my shin on another obstacle. “It’s Shay!”
I took two more strides, but another cannon-like report issued from the porch. I hit the ground face-first and tried to burrow into the snow.
Without breathing, I waited for him to fire off the second round.
The second blast sounded like it was right over my head. The resulting thunder echoed through the trees. Before Limpy Dick had a chance to finish reloading, I bounced up and charged the last few feet to the porch.
My throat felt raw. I launched into a long, low dive and slammed into the side of the shack to the right of the porch steps.
There were definitely going to be bruises.
Huddling against the siding, my arms over my head, I screeched, “Dick, it’s Shay, Pete O’Hanlon’s kid!”
For a second overwhelming silence roared in my ears. I heard a clunk, and the sound of the slide on the shotgun slamming home. There was a thud, and Limpy Dick said gruffly, “Shay O’Hanlon? That really you? Where the hell are you hiding?”
I rolled my eyes, tried to breathe. “I’m. Right here. Don’t. Shoot. ’Kay?”
He grunted, and I took that as his agreement to cease fire.
My legs shook. I pulled myself to my feet, stumbled to the steps, and staggered up them.
Limpy Dick stood in the middle of the porch bundled in a thick jacket. A knit stocking cap was perched at an angle on his head, and camouflage snow pants with one leg cut off at the knee kept his lower half warm. A prosthesis stuck out below the end of the shortened side of the pants and a felt boot was attached to the foot. A long, grizzled, gray-and-white beard covered his face. He looked like Minnesota’s version of the guys on Duck Dynasty.
He clumped forward and grabbed me in a tight bear hug, lifting me off my feet. Every one of my bruises screamed in pain. He blustered, “Little O! Don’t you remember the whippoorwill?”
The side of my face was mashed against the rough fabric of his coat. “I—”
“Speak up,” he bellowed. “I can’t hear a goddamned thing any-
more.”
Things got a little out of control when JT, gun in hand, burst through the trees screaming my name. Thank god I thought to grab the shotgun from where it rested against the porch railing before Limpy Dick got his hands on it. I attempted to explain—as we played tug-of-war—that the heat-packing, wild-eyed crazy woman wasn’t a danger. It took three tries before he understood JT wasn’t out to steal his money and she understood he wasn’t threatening me.
Any longer, anyway.
A few minutes later I huddled inside the shack with Coop, Eddy, and JT around a table made from a gigantic tree trunk. It was six inches thick, maybe five feet across, and must have weighed five hundred pounds. The top had a thick, clear glaze on it that protected the wood beneath.
I hadn’t been inside Limpy Dick’s place in a very, very long time. It felt like Alice in Wonderland’s version of déjà vu. There were several upgrades in the intervening years that shocked the socks off of me. He now had a
50-inch HDTV on a stand a few feet in front of a huge, overstuffed wood-framed couch and a matching recliner. A laptop computer and printer were set up on one half of a breakfast bar that was pushed up against the wall beneath one of the blacked-out windows. On the other side of the bar were at least fifty, if not more, tiny figures carved out of wood. They ranged from delicate butterflies to slinky foxes to roaring black bears.
Eddy picked one up—a tiny, perfect replica of a caterpillar—admired the intricate detailing. “Cool,” she said.
Limpy Dick grinned, his yellow teeth peeping between strands of shaggy beard like off-color Chiclets. “Doc said I needed to get me a hobby to help deal with stress. I started putting knife to wood a few years back. Got hooked. Now I sell them little things on Etsy.”
Etsy? How had Limpy Dick ever heard of Etsy? What had happened to the man I once knew? However, there was pride in his tone, not the derision I was certain would have been there long ago when talking about a markedly feminine crafty site.
Some things do change after all.
Now Limpy Dick busied himself hustling around his kitchen, pulling espressos from a single pour, commercial-grade machine. I didn’t remember him being much of a coffee guy, much less a fan of the fancy stuff. Most of Dad’s friends considered coffee drinks foo-foo and made for women—well beneath them and their rough and tumble “give me a Bud for breakfast” exteriors.
Once Limpy Dick set tiny cups—on saucers, mind you—before us, he dropped into a chair with a grunt.
JT slid me a wide-eyed, “Is he nuts?” look. I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea anymore.
“Sorry agin’ about that little to-do, Shay,” Limpy Dick said gruffly, staring intently at the mug that looked child-sized in his meaty, fingers-missing hand.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m sorry I startled you like that. I didn’t know how get a hold you any other way.” I kind of wanted to reach over and hug him, let him know that I held no ill will after being taken for a moving target. JT, however, wasn’t feeling so magnanimous. I could still feel the waves of angry tension rolling off her body. I was definitely going to have to make this one up to her in a big way very soon.
Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder Page 14