Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2)

by Barry Knister

  It was just like Marion Ross to turn a fishing trip won in a raffle into a week of fresh-air camp for shut-ins and housewives. And a stray like her journalist friend.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  They stopped at six for gas, bought candy, and more coffee.

  As they walked back through the service plaza, Marion glanced at the bank of pay phones. Outside, she reached in her jeans pocket and pulled out her cell phone.

  “Don’t do it.” Brenda stepped up to her. “Come on, you promised Carrie. Calls only in emergencies, plus one after we get to Milwaukee.”

  “I know, I know…” Marion looked down at the phone. “Worry is an addiction, okay?”

  “And this is an intervention. Why don’t I keep it for you?”

  Marion sighed and handed over the phone. “You should’ve been a cop. I suppose you want to conduct a cavity search to check for a backup.”

  “Not before we eat dinner.”

  They returned to the Suburban, and Brenda took the wheel. The day was ending as it had begun, overcast and chilly. Soon, she was driving through the rolling hills of Wisconsin dairy country. Slopes marked by penned herds and unplowed acreage stretched away under dark skies. In the waning light, the farmhouses and barns looked cared for and prosperous.

  “Does the idea appeal to you?” Marion asked. “Farm life?”

  “Yes, but only as an idea. From the safe distance of your car. People working the soil, doing meaningful labor. I see them eating huge meals and never gaining a pound. Everyone’s spinning yarns about calving season, and yes, I’ll have another biscuit, please. Then they read a few pages in the latest Burpees seed catalog and go to bed without drugs.”

  “I like the part about meals.”

  “So do I. But I’d go nuts in a week.”

  “Ever do a story on farmers?”

  She thought about it. Her two-part series on urban gardens in Detroit didn’t really count. Neither did the one on genetically modified plants.

  “I did a piece on a man who killed horses,” she said. “A rancher in Wyoming. He was gaming the government’s ‘Adopt a Horse’ program. You could adopt wild horses for a dollar, it was meant to save the remaining free-range mustangs. After a year they were yours. He was letting dozens of wild horses graze on his land. A year and a day later, he could slaughter them and sell them for dog food. All legal. He hauled them up by the heels, then slit their throats. He preferred bleeding them out that way.”

  “How disgusting. Did your story shut him down?”

  “Yes.”

  “The power of the pen. I bet that made you feel great.”

  Brenda shook her head. “No, it didn’t. It wasn’t enough. He was just going to keep on being what he was. Hurting people, hurting animals. I interviewed him, you must know the type from your practice. In his own mind he didn’t see anything wrong. And he had a way with words. You could almost imagine how he might be good company. If he hadn’t been a monster.”

  After a moment, she glanced over. Her friend was staring out, thinking. Brenda faced forward and tightened her grip on the wheel. Like an acid flash, she saw herself and the rancher in his barn. They were standing beside two skinned horses. He was smiling, dressed in camouflage, explaining how much he was paid per pound. Hearing him, and remembering the beauty of grazing horses she’d passed on the way to his ranch had made her close to crazy.

  “It wasn’t just killing horses,” she said. “It was how he treated his wife. His sons. It was always their fault when he hit one of them, ‘for their own good.’ They accepted it, too. For them, it was the natural way of families.”

  Marion bumped out some M&Ms. “You need these. Give me your hand.”

  Eyes on the road, Brenda held out her right hand. Chocolates dropped into her palm, and she popped them in her mouth. Both women crunched in silence.

  “Yeah, they’re out there,” Marion said. “Just before I cut back my practice, I had a client mixed up with someone born with a chip on his shoulder. Every negative in his life he blamed on others. And my client, my God—” Marion sighed. “All this talk about independence and making your own decisions? Not Doreen. When her significant other moved in and laid his ‘plan’ on her, she was completely grateful.”

  “What was his plan?”

  “Skimming funds. They both worked for this plumbing company. He snaked out sewer lines, she was a bookkeeper. He talked her into falsifying invoices. I still have a suspicion she never fully understood what she did was wrong. Of course, he insisted everything was her responsibility, he had nothing to do with it.”

  After a moment, Brenda glanced over. Marion now looked thoughtful.

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” Marion said. “They were actually pretty happy. We called them Mickey and Minnie in the office. You know, symbiosis, co-dependency, whatever. But she had what she wanted. Someone telling her what to do. Yes, it was embezzlement, it was fraud. But she was happy. They belonged together.”

  Brenda again thought of the skinned horses. “But you said he was cruel.”

  Marion sighed again. “Sure he was. Oh, he didn’t hit her, he was just manipulative. A control freak. The kind of man who needs someone to give orders to. To manage.”

  She laughed. “He was such a hopeless klutz. He’d failed at everything. Dishonorable discharge from the Navy, fired from MichCon. And literally a klutz. Tripping in court, spilling soft drinks out in the corridor. When I asked her about it, Doreen just said he was this capable guy who could fix anything. I’m sure he was like that, but only around her. They connected. He’s up for sentencing in a few days.”

  A beep sounded from the dashboard. Then a light began flashing. Brenda glanced at Marion. “Am I doing something to make your car unhappy?”

  “It’s a fax.”

  “In your car?”

  “I’m a lawyer, Bren. Discovery documents, deposition transcripts, blah blah. Not to mention my phone being seized, remember?” Marion secured her coffee and tapped buttons. Now paper began issuing from a slot below the radio. It went on, stopping and starting, then gave a smooth run and stopped. She tore off the sheet and brought it close.

  “It’s from Drew,” she said. “Dear Mark Trail, are we having fun yet? Jay and I just got back from The Mouse Trap. I think Jay was bored. Tomorrow, it’s Savile Row for a fashion makeover. Then I see our future business partner for lunch, and Jay does Parliament. Don’t forget your promise to Carrie. She needs her space, or whatever it’s called now. Take a whizz in the woods for me, and give my best to Bambi. I mean Brenda. Jay says love yuh.”

  Marion folded the paper and tapped the dashboard clock. “Jet lag, he’s still up.” She put the paper in her breast pocket, buttoned the flap, and turned to look out her side window.

  It was dark now, lights on in the farmhouses. Brenda saw herself in the windshield and felt isolated. It had to do with yellow windows in darkness, and the story of two misfits who were happy together. And with Marion Ross folding a fax and putting it in her pocket.

  9:20 P.M.

  “Shit, it’s cold.”

  Hands behind his head, Jerry Lomak lay stretched out on the girl’s bed. Carrie, her name was. The bedspread had blue and gold unicorns and was crowded with stuffed animals.

  He glanced again at the clock on the nightstand. He got up, stepped to the side window, and separated the curtain. The lights were now off next door. The Heanys lived there, retirees. They had come outside to work in the yard, making it impossible for him to leave before dark.

  “The missus made him his favorite heart-smart special. They watched America’s Favorite Home Videos, and packed it in.”

  He dropped the curtain, needing to pee. The bathroom was next door, but Rohmer would say no, to hold it. Don’t touch anything, he’d say, there’s DNA in your urine, yadda yadda yadda. That’s how Rohmer’s mind worked. But when you gotta go, you gotta go. It was because of the cold. The thermostat had been turned down for the ten days no one would be home.r />
  He remembered the maid. Better check her again.

  He turned away and crossed to the open door. What if she had only skipped a few beats? Just in shock? Lomak now scuffed along the dark second-floor hall, but slowed to glance in the master bedroom. The bedside lamps were now on, from a timer. He’d checked it out earlier, picking up framed photos, smelling the perfume he remembered from court. Smelling it again when he opened her closet. Ross’s husband was a tie freak, at least a hundred in his own closet. They had a fireplace in the bedroom with a mantel. Clay pots she had made rested there. Smelling her scent had made him want to smash everything.

  He turned away and started down the stairs. Below, the hardwood entrance hall was arranged with Oriental rugs. Two big planters with little trees stood before windows on either side of the front door. In the room on the left, light came from another timer lamp.

  Hell with it. Squeeze out a quick pee, then leave.

  He stepped off the staircase and crossed, zipped open his fly, and began peeing into the left planter. Lomak sighed with relief and looked in the lighted room.

  Floor lamps bathed the study in a soft yellow glow. One wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling books. A little mahogany ladder ran along a rail for reaching the upper shelves. A whole room, he thought. Just for sitting on your ass and reading. Two big, green leather chairs flanked a computer desk. It all made Lomak think of the conference room in the law office where Marion Ross was a partner. Sitting across from him, next to Doreen, Ross had said he could confess to fraud and cop a plea, or take his chances in court. The memory and the softly lit room filled him with a mix of rage and loss.

  Lomak finished and zipped up. He moved back along the hall to the kitchen with its slate floor. How much would a floor like that cost? He reached the basement stairs and headed down, careful in the dark. But in dim light from the basement’s glass-brick windows, he could make out the maid’s body below. The towels were heaped at her feet on the last couple steps. He stopped now, squinting to see. The blood pool next to her head had developed a skin. He saw she was stiffer.

  Coming back for towels. He shook his head. The luck of the draw, bad karma.

  He turned, went back up to the landing, then stopped and glanced back down. His own timers were connected to small charges on the gas line. All at once Lomak wasn’t sure he’d set them correctly. That was Rohmer. It was like Louis Rohmer was watching him through the little professor glasses he wore, with his bald head and white beard. Someone like that made you doubt yourself.

  Nah, you set them right, he decided. Out the back and across the yard.

  He passed through the kitchen and stepped into the dark dining room. Bottles glinted on a butler’s cart parked against the outside wall. It was like the cart they used for cooking next to your table at Mario’s on Second Street. Steak Diane, Cherries Jubilee. That’s where he and Doreen liked to go. Valet parking, waiters in tuxes. He saw himself there, Doreen sitting opposite in the purple dress that showed some cleavage. Duke and Pilar—that’s what they called each other for fun. Duke for John “Duke” Wayne, Pilar for his wife.

  Not purple, Jerry, aubergine.

  Auber-whatever was French for eggplant. He now moved to the patio door.

  “Remnick residence.”

  “Carrie?”

  “No, Mom, it’s the house. The Remnick residence.”

  “Very funny. Are you two all right? Is Mrs. Remnick there?”

  “She’s in the shower. She burned her hand on the grill, making tuna kabobs.”

  “I’m sorry. Was it bad?”

  “She has a plastic bag on it, in the shower. Like Jay did on his cast.”

  “Where’s Mr. Remnick?”

  “He and Brittany went to Cosi Fan Tutti to pick up a pizza. We gave up on the kabobs.”

  “All right, kiddo, I’ll let you go. Give my best to Mrs. Remnick. Tell her—”

  “She has the number, Mom. For Milwaukee, the boat place, the FBI.”

  “Okay, I did promise, didn’t I? What can I say? Once a mom always a mom.”

  “And when I have kids, I’ll be a pain in the butt just like you. You told me enough times.”

  “All true. Maybe you’ll be even worse. Well, I guess that’s it, then. Wish us luck.”

  “Just don’t bring anything home we have to put on the wall.”

  “Not a nice big northern pike for your room?”

  “Gross. Look, Mom, I’m online with this really cute serial killer, I have to go.”

  “Very funny, all right. Carrie?”

  “Yes, Mom, I love you too.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Smiling and nodding as Heather Reese continued talking about her son’s hockey team, Brenda was trying to overhear Marion. She was making her call next door in the kitchen. Now she hung up.

  “Of course, to anyone else it’s just kids’ stuff, but for us it’s incredibly—”

  Heather turned as Marion stepped into the dining room. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” Marion sat again at the table. “Carrie’s getting ready to stuff herself on pizza. Go on with your story.”

  “I’m just boring poor Brenda here about Brian Junior’s hockey,” Heather said. “All us moms and dads go crazy watching. Those little guys really skate their hearts out. You’d think ‘lock those people up’ if you saw us, but we wouldn’t miss a game.”

  “Jay played football,” Marion said. “Flanker or end, something like that. It always scared me, watching him being chased around. You think, well, they’re padded all over, stop worrying. Then you read some spinal-injury story.”

  Heather nodded, then downed what was left of her wine. She reached for the newly opened third bottle of chardonnay.

  “The cross-checking in hockey is a problem for me,” she said, pouring. “They discourage rough stuff, and the coaches change players a lot. So everyone gets a chance. But there are the skates. With the girls it was different. Jamie threw up sometimes in swim practice, but I guess that just goes with it. And Robbie—well, Robbie always did her own thing. Does her own thing, I should say.”

  Heather smiled too quickly, put down the bottle and raised her glass. “Oh, I’m sorry—” She set down the glass and got the bottle. “Who’s ready? Mar?”

  “No thanks, I—”

  Heather poured into Marion’s glass. “Oh, come on. We’re celebrating, no one’s driving. This is girl talk, catching up.”

  When she turned with the bottle, Brenda put her hand over her glass.

  “Sure?” Heather said.

  “Very sure.”

  “Oh, come on. We all know famous writers are big drinkers.”

  “I’m not famous, so I’m not allowed.”

  “Well, you’re famous around here. Wait, I know.”

  Heather got up quickly and went into the kitchen. Her napkin had fallen, and Brenda retrieved it. She placed it next to Heather’s plate, and looked across at her friend. Marion shook her head and mouthed don’t ask me.

  Behind her, the wallpaper presented colonial American troops in blue uniforms, marching in formation. A rack of antique plates circled the room, maintaining perfect alignment like the troops. More plates were displayed inside a large hutch that covered the dining room’s back wall. Brian Senior had made the hutch in his garage workshop. He had eaten early and was out there now, running a saw.

  “Here we go.” Heather stepped from the kitchen, holding a half-full brandy snifter. “I figure a Pulitzer winner for a cognac girl.” She set it down next to Brenda’s coffee cup and took her chair.

  “Thanks. I’m going to take this with me and get some air. You two can duke it out over Little League or whatever’s next.”

  “You must be going bonkers,” Heather said. “Listening to us rattle on about children.”

  “Not at all.” Brenda pushed back her chair, feeling like someone in a book club who hadn’t done the reading.

  “Once Mar and I get through the catching up, I want to hea
r all the gossip about the book you wrote.” Heather sipped her wine and winked. “Marion’s told me a lot about you.”

  “You mean Zapped! You shouldn’t judge—”

  “Not just that. She says you kick serious butt in your work.” Heather winked again. “’Get ‘em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow’—who was it said that? Oh God—” Her face dropped, and she covered her mouth. “Forgive me, I can’t believe I said that.”

  Brenda smiled. “I think Nixon’s guy Chuck Colson gets the credit.”

  “I’m sorry, really. It’s all this talk about hockey. When we go to Chicago, the Blackhawks games are so violent. We try to watch the language around Brian Junior.”

  Marion raised a hand. “Point of order. I just said you don’t pull any punches to keep your sources happy. You sure didn’t with me.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Heather nodded. “That’s what I meant.”

  Brenda reached down for the brandy snifter. “Eight hours on the road. I feel like someone kicked my butt for real. Back in ten minutes.”

  She walked into the hall and moved toward the front entrance. Yes, they were now actually talking about Little League baseball. But clearly Marion had been caught off guard by whatever was going on in the Reese household. Ahead, hooked rugs lay on pegged flooring. There were appliqued milk cans, and clay pickle crocks stuck full of bats and hockey sticks.

  She reached her room and opened the door. Everything here fit with the rest of the house: antique washstand, distressed chest of drawers, a bedspread themed with ears of maize and Pilgrims. The bedside table was draped with a quilt. Centered there, a hurricane lamp glowed red, fitted with a pink bulb. Because of the lamp, Brenda had dubbed the décor Molly Pitcher Bordello. If you stay in my room, you have to put out when a Minuteman needs a comfort woman—that’s what she whispered to Marion when Heather went to fetch Brian Junior. Fourteen and suited up for hockey practice, he had looked like a kid’s version of the Detroit Red Wings’ Darren McCarty.