See Also Deadline

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “I’m sure Farley doesn’t have what I need, Marjorie. You know that.” Hank stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hands at sides as if he were a gunfighter in a Western movie about to draw on three.

  I dried my hands off with a damp towel and took in the stance, and the look on Hank’s face. “Seems to me the more machinery you have the more land you have to work to pay for the machinery. You and Shep both’ll be chasing your tails before long.”

  I wished I hadn’t said it as soon as the words left my mouth. Hank’s neck turned red, then exploded upward to his forehead until his entire face flushed with anger. “I might as well give up then. Talkin’ to you about this is like talkin’ to a brick wall.”

  “We can’t lose this farm,” I said. Another dumb thing to say, because that was all I ever had to say to remind Hank that this was my family farm, built with the sweat of my grandparents and parents. He never said a word out loud, but Hank felt like a renter on the farm for most all of his life.

  “I might as well quit bein’ a farmer right here and now then and go into town and become an insurance salesman like Hamish Martin.”

  I refrained from laughing. I knew that was never going to happen. Hank Trumaine wouldn’t put a tie around his neck unless he had to go to church or a funeral. I could tell where this argument was heading, and I didn’t like the feel in the air. A dangerous thunderstorm was brewing. I turned around and went back to scrubbing my roasting pan. Only this time I put a little more elbow into it.

  “That’s all you have to say, then? You’re going to ignore me?” Hank had said.

  “When you can talk to me rationally, we’ll sit down again and look at the numbers. But until then, I’m going to get this pan clean.”

  I heard a big humph! Then Hank stomped out the door and didn’t stop until he found Erik Knudsen sitting on his porch pondering one of his own problems. Hank didn’t come home until well after dark, and I served supper, and my shoulder, to him cold. He worked his frustration out on some chores, then came to bed, kissed me, and promised to look at the numbers with a calm mind in the morning. Two days later, we had a new combine sitting in the barn, but I worried the whole time that this could be the argument that broke us apart. I knew what was at stake.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what Nils and Anna Jacobsen had argued about the night before he was killed, and if their fight had anything to do with what had happened to him.

  The Studebaker’s engine coughed, then caught and started to run smooth. I could see part way out of the windshield, enough to pull out onto the street. I was ready to be home.

  CHAPTER 15

  Villard Street was the main thoroughfare in Dickinson. A wide assortment of businesses fronted the street, erected on an old pioneer trail that had matured year after year with the demand of a steadily growing population. Hardy and optimistic homesteaders had encouraged the Northern Pacific Railroad to post handbills across Europe, advertising free land in the Dakota Territory. Risk takers and dreamers gave up everything they had to come to the new world. We all carried determined, persistent traits in our blood, and no matter the tragedies or harsh conditions that confronted us, we drew on our durable inheritance to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The thriving business district stood up to the prairie in prideful defiance, mindful of the past but moving into the future—whether people were ready for the modern world or not.

  The Walgreens store, stood next to Home Furniture. The Service Drug Store sat on the other side of Home Furniture, a door down from the Walgreens, at the corner of Sims and Villard. As I sat idling at the stop sign, I imagined Nils Jacobsen walking home from work on Sims Street, day after day, night after night, regardless of the weather. I admired a man dedicated to his work—no matter what that work was. I knew I would never see Nils again; smiling with his perfectly bleached white Red Owl shirt on, greeting customers in a store he treated like he owned the deed to—but didn’t. He was a renter in the same way Hank was. That fond memory of Nils was replaced by a man slumped over the steering wheel, bloody and dead, never to smile again.

  At the thought of Nils and the store, I considered what I might need to stock up on before heading home. Instinct and training demanded that I didn’t waste a trip into town. I decided to replace the chicken and potatoes I’d used for the knoephla soup and get a couple of packs of cigarettes. I didn’t want to run out.

  Evening had come on fast, bringing with it an overcast sky full of gray promise. Snow spit downward, the wind carrying the haphazard flakes quickly away as if they were tiny balloons set free from a child’s hand. I could tell by the dark horizon that a steadier drop of snow was yet to come, and if I had any sense at all I’d head straight home instead of stopping at the Red Owl. The truth was, my cellar was full enough to survive two blizzards, and I could make a pack of Salems last a week if I had to. I could get by without that chicken, but something told me I needed to stop and go into the store.

  I turned onto Villard Street and made my way toward the grocery store, creeping along the snowy street as slowly as the traffic would allow. My tires crunched on the hard snow and ice underneath me. I had the radio off, already assured of the weather and news.

  The Dickinson Theater, where Hank had gotten his hand gently slapped for moving too fast, stood proudly down the block. The twenty-five-foot-tall oblong sign caught my attention. The rolling lights on the sign looked like lighting bugs caught in a bottle, trying to escape with every flicker. Movies were a treat I’d long forgotten. I hadn’t stepped inside the theater in years. The marquee said a movie called Goldfinger was playing. I didn’t know anything about the film. It sounded like a candy bar to me.

  Even in January, with the prediction of snow and diving temperatures, Villard Street was vibrant and active. There was hardly a parking spot to be found, and since it was Saturday all of the lights in the storefronts blazed brightly, doing their best to look warm and welcoming. Once five o’clock hit, though, most of the businesses would close. Beaudoin’s Main Bar, opposite the Service Drug, was busy with customers. Televisions faced out of a tall plate glass window in the appliance store, stacked high, flickering with moving images in vibrant color. I couldn’t spend the money on something that I knew I wouldn’t use, but, like everyone else, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the televisions. The F. W. Woolworth store would soon go dark, along with Quinlan’s Café. The St. Charles Hotel would remain open, and a few blocks away the Wild Pony Tavern would welcome customers late into the night. I was never comfortable in town. All of the coming and going made me nervous.

  I found a parking spot a few doors down from the Red Owl and counted myself lucky to claim a plug-in for the block heater. I didn’t think I would be long, but I had strained the battery by letting the truck sit along the street outside of Anna’s unattended. I was sure the battery could use a charge. I was in no mood to find myself stranded in a ditch.

  After checking my hair in the rearview mirror, making sure that I was presentable, I made my way out into the cold once again. The wind rumbled in my ears, pushing most of my thoughts away. I wanted to stay upright and get into the store as soon as I could. The electric stands in town reminded me of hitching posts. I plugged in the block heater, then shuffled to the store.

  The Red Owl was a long, narrow room, with shelves stacked perfectly with canned goods on the right. Fresh vegetable bins ran down the center aisle, and the meat counter stood shining on the left, all white and stainless steel, gleaming under bright, overhead lights. The floors were hickory, the grain worn down over the years with steady traffic, and the ceiling was pressed tin in an alternating pattern of circles and triangles. The aroma was distinct to grocery stores, a mix of fresh-ground coffee, dried beans, a hint of decay, and the distant, metallic smell of raw meat.

  Frank Aberle, a middle-aged man who looked like Chef Boyardee, rotund, balding, with a thick mustache, looked up when I walked in the door. He wore a clean white grocer’s apron and a sad, droopy expression that had settled on hi
s face a long time ago. I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile. Frank was the assistant manager at the Red Owl, as well as the president of the German-Hungarian Club. He and Nils had remained friends since they were boys. There was reason for him to be sad.

  “Oh, hey there, Mrs. Trumaine. What brings you out on a night like this? More snow comin’ in, you know,” Frank said, as he laid a pencil down on the counter.

  “Little flakes are already starting to drop,” I said, as I wiped my feet on the black mat inside the door. Snow and salt fell off my heels, and a briny puddle formed under my feet.

  “You heard about Nils?” Frank said.

  “I was at the house with the Ladies Aid.”

  Frank ran his big, meaty right hand over the top of his baldhead as if he was trying to warm his scalp up. “Everybody’s heard. People been wanderin’ in and out all day, not buying a darn thing, lookin’ me in the eye and askin’ if I know what in the heck is going on. Of course, I don’t know a thing. Not a gall-durned thing. You don’t have any questions like that, do you?”

  “No, I need some potatoes and a fresh chicken if you have one.”

  I looked beyond Frank to see if Mills Standish was in the butcher’s room. I didn’t know what hours Mills worked, but the lights in the stainless steel room were off. Frank was the only person in the store.

  “Well, sure, I can fix you right up with some chicken and potatoes, Mrs. Trumaine. You wait right there,” Frank said, then loped off with a look of relief on his face.

  Of course, I had more than a few questions that I wanted to ask Frank, but I restrained myself. I stood at the counter looking at everything a little closer. The only thing that I found related to Nils was a picture of him on the wall that I’d seen a thousand times. A thin plaque stating he was the manager sat underneath the picture. Other than that, there was no sign of Nils Jacobsen’s former presence to be found in the store.

  Frank came back with a chicken that looked freshly plucked and held the plump bird up for my inspection. “Will that do you?”

  “Looks fine to me, Frank. Thank you.” I looked over my shoulder to the potato bin. I wasn’t so thrilled with the selection I saw offered. “You don’t have any good potatoes in the back do you?”

  Frank drew in his cheeks, puzzled, like he was trying to make a quick decision but got stuck halfway through the thought. “Well, I do, but they’re not normally stocked until morning. I think I can make an exception for you, Mrs. Trumaine. I guess I’m in charge until someone says different.”

  “It still hasn’t sunk in. I understand,” I said.

  “I’m sure you do. I’ll wrap this up for you.” Frank hurried off to the butcher’s room, carrying the chicken with him. The smell of raw meat lingered closer to my nose than I would have liked. I wasn’t the least bit hungry.

  I had pieced on one thing or another in Anna’s kitchen all day, and Darlys and I had sneaked off when we could to the empty garage for a cigarette when the visitors slowed. Helen Greggson had shown some disapproval concerning our smoking habit, but no one else seemed to mind.

  Frank came back to the counter carrying a brown paper bag, and set it down. “You didn’t say how many potatoes you needed,” he said, “so I packed you up five pounds worth.”

  “That’s fine, Frank.”

  “Anything else for you?”

  The store didn’t sell cigarettes. The Walgreens did. “Yes, that’ll do.”

  I waited for Frank to ring up my order, but instead he cast a glance at the front door, then looked back at me. “You know that bad feeling when a doozy of a storm’s comin’?”

  “I do. Everything gets quiet. The wheat stands up tall. The pigs get pensive. The birds seem to sigh in retreat, waiting for what’s next, eyeing the closest place to take cover from hail or wind.” I studied Frank’s face. His skin had tightened a bit, and his eyes had dimmed. “Won’t be long before spring’s here and we have those worries. Why do you ask, Frank?”

  “It’s been quiet here for about a week or so, the air real thick with Nils, all for no reason that I could figure,” Frank said. He seemed nervous, his attention shifting to the door, then back to me, over and over again.

  “You’ve talked to Guy about this?”

  “Yes, but there wasn’t much to tell. Only that I had a feelin’ that something was off with Nils.”

  “Okay, then.” I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t want to press. “Are you all right, Frank?”

  “Yes, yes, I am. I knew . . .” He hesitated, then went on with a little tremor in his voice. “I know you’ve faced bad times. The worst anyone can imagine. No one lives a long life and doesn’t have some kind of loss to bear, but I sure wasn’t expectin’ this, like you wasn’t expectin’ to lose Hank like you did.” Frank searched my face for a reaction to see if he’d said the wrong thing.

  I reached out and touched his big, cold hand. “I’m sorry, Frank. You and Nils worked together for a long time. I know he was your friend, too. This is hard. I’m really sorry.”

  Frank’s eyes went glassy, then he turned to the cash register. “I better ring you up. Snow’s startin’ to come down harder, and you’ve got a ways to go before you get home.”

  “I do. If something comes to mind, you’ll call Guy won’t you? Or me, if you need to talk.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Trumaine, I really appreciate that. I will. I’ll call the sheriff if I think of something.”

  His words sounded hollow. I wasn’t sure that Frank would take me up on my offer, or call Guy. I hoped he would. If he knew something that could help catch the person who had killed Nils Jacobsen, then I sure did hope he wouldn’t keep anything important to himself.

  I had to scrape snow off the windshield twice before the engine was warm enough to drive. I didn’t have anything to do but look out the window until the truck was ready to go.

  The traffic slowed on Villard as the snow fell at a steadier pace. The wind kicked up, making the street harder to see. The rumble and groan of the Studebaker’s engine was all I had to keep me company. I had the radio turned off. I’d had more than enough voices to sort in my mind for one day. I didn’t need any more.

  I’d heard a lot of questions, suffered silent glances that questioned my presence, and smelled enough fear and Old Spice to last me a lifetime. I knew I’d need some time to make sense of everything that I’d heard at Anna’s throughout the day. At that thought, I turned on the windshield wipers, cleared off the fog on the inside glass, pushed in the clutch, and shifted the truck in gear. I needed to get myself home.

  I backed out onto the street carefully and made my way down Villard, the businesses on one side, railroad tracks on the other. Wind buffeted against the truck, rocking the old Studebaker like it was made of paper instead of steel. The drive home was going to be long and slow. I couldn’t see twenty feet in front of me as I inched down the street. The streetlights blazed like beacons, and about half of the businesses were still open for customers. Country driving was going to be even slower.

  I pumped the brakes, preparing to stop at the intersection ahead. A pair of headlights appeared on the other side of the street, and I didn’t know if the car was going to go straight, or turn at the stop sign.

  The Studebaker slid a little bit, then came to a full stop. The car opposite me did the same. We both sat there waiting for the other one to move. I was going straight, and so were they. Without any further hesitation, I took my foot off the brake and inched forward, being as cautious as I could. Some people gunned a start so they wouldn’t get stuck in the middle of the intersection. Depending on the driver’s skill, and the type of car, fishtailing or losing control was a real possibility. Thankfully, this driver knew what he was doing. He’d inched out into the intersection slowly, too.

  We passed each other crawling along, our safety assured. I glanced over at the car, a long, dark-colored four-door sedan that could have been a Chevrolet or a Ford. Car models weren’t important to me, but Hank knew every one of them, and comm
ented, hoping I would show some interest. Since he’d been gone, I couldn’t have cared less whether a car was a Plymouth or a Cadillac.

  I couldn’t see the driver clearly at all. He wore a black toboggan, a ski cap that covered his hair and head, and a similar colored muffler around his neck that reached up to his cheeks, making his face hard to define. I really wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman that sat behind the wheel, but I assumed the driver was a man. There wasn’t anything unusual about the driver that I saw in the snowy, gray, fleeting second that I had to see him. But there was something unusual about the passenger in the backseat staring out the window.

  I saw a young girl with a moon face and tiny slits for eyes, staring out the window blankly as if she were on a ride to nowhere, not panicked or afraid. My heart skipped a beat and a breath got stuck in my throat. Before I could count to five, I was past the car, craning my head for another look. But I was too late; all I could see was a pair of red taillights disappearing into the snowy void.

  I was almost certain the girl in the car was Tina Rinkerman. Almost certain. But not positive.

  CHAPTER 16

  Had I imagined seeing Tina Rinkerman?

  I had to go back and find out.

  I slammed on the brakes. My impulsive reaction sent the Studebaker immediately into a bending slide. Cold South Bend steel protested, and the tires moaned against the icy street instead of squealing. I knew better than to do such a thing, but my foot reacted as if it had a mind of its own. Common sense had left every part of my being as soon as I saw that face.

  I’m sure the girl in the car was Tina Rinkerman.

  The rear end jerked to the right, giving the rest of the vehicle no choice but to follow. Gravity, fear, and black ice created a recipe for disaster. The heavy load of snow in the bed didn’t matter. There was no stopping the truck’s entrance into a swing dance. I yanked the steering wheel to the left, pulled my foot off the brake, then started pumping the pedal furiously. That’s when the world really started to spin. The truck gained speed like a Tilt-a-Whirl ride at the summer carnival.