Watkins - 01 - Blood Country

by Mary Logue

  Once Ramah had asked her about her father’s death, what had happened to him. But Meg told her what her mom told her to tell anyone who asked. That she didn’t know anything. She hadn’t seen anything. She really didn’t remember what had happened. She was so glad that she had finally told her mother. The secret had been tearing a hole inside of her, and now that was over.

  After the ambulance came and took her dad, she and her mom had left the house and had never gone back.

  But Meg had never forgotten. She remembered what the man who drove the car looked like. He would be hard to forget. He had red hair, and he wore it down to his shoulders. He looked a little bit like Jesus Christ did in the Bible, except he had red hair.

  CLAIRE FOUND LEO Stromboli settled into a big, upholstered chair in his living room, a remote control in one hand, a cigarette in the other. A tall man with hooded dark eyes, silver hair greased back and a white shirt on, he sat in a lift chair, he explained to her—a chair that would mechanically lift him up when he wanted to get out of it. He was still living on his own, but his daughter lived just down the street and checked on him all the time. He wasn’t a well man, she could tell by looking at him. He sounded like he had emphysema, and he moved like he had arthritis.

  Word of Landers’ death had already reached him, so she didn’t see his reaction to the news. But he told her he would miss him. They had been like brothers, only better, because there was no blood between them.

  Leo Stromboli and Landers Anderson had owned a clothing store in Wabasha from 1945 to 1985. Forty years they worked together. “Never a mean word between us,” Stromboli told Claire.

  “Now, I’m not saying he was an angel. Don’t get me wrong. He was a man like all of us.” Stromboli took a gasp of a puff on his cigarette. A shaky hand guided it back to the ashtray. “But he was a straight-ahead guy. No one would want to kill him.”

  “How did you two meet?” Claire asked.

  “We go back to the war. Met over in Italy. With a name like Stromboli, and I could hardly order a pizza.” His chuckle went deep and then exploded into a cough. After a moment, he regained his breath and took another puff on his cigarette. “Landers was in my squad. We were both of us from Minnesota. Landers lived in Lake City, and I came from Wabasha. So that kind of made us stick together. When the war was over and we had both made it home, we went into business together. Landers ordered the clothes and paid the bills. He was the brains. I was out on the floor, selling, selling, selling. I was a hell of a salesman in my time. Nobody better. We carried good stuff too. Easy to tell the women how good they looked in our hats. See, women used to wear hats back in the old days.”

  “I vaguely remember that.” Claire laughed. “My mom had some great hats. My sister and I would dress up in them.”

  “Yeah, women had style back then.” Leo closed his eyes for a moment as if remembering.

  “What, you don’t like my outfit?” Claire teased him.

  He waved his hands at what she was wearing. “You got a job to do. I understand. But I hope you wear a dress once in a while. A woman with a figure like yours gotta wear a dress.”

  “So did you know Landers’ wife very well?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Oh?” Claire wanted to follow up on his ambivalence.

  “Ah, you know how it is. I saw her a lot. She would come and work the sales. But Landers didn’t like her to work. What’s the matter with a little work? I’d ask him. But no, for his wife, she needs to stay at home. I don’t know what she did with herself. They had no kids. She was delicate, Landers would say. ‘Cuz she didn’t get out enough. That’s what I think. I think she suffered from depression. Maybe she had a hard time when she couldn’t have any kids, who’s to say? But she wasn’t a happy person.”

  “Did they get along?”

  “I always thought so. Right toward the end, she got a bit touchy, but hey, wait until you get this age, and see if you can be a Little Miss Pollyana all the time.” He looked at the short stub of a cigarette he held in his hand, then decided it was done. He stubbed it out in a well-littered ashtray.

  “Someone else told me that too. That the last five years of her life, they didn’t get along so well.”

  Leo shrugged his shoulders. “My wife and I could go at it. Scream at each other. Cuss and have a real row, then it’d be over and she’d ask me what I wanted for dinner. God, I miss that broad. So who’s to say what goes on between people?”

  “What about Landers’ brother? Did you ever know him?”

  “Yeah, I met him all right. Knew him better than I wanted to. When he moved back to this area, he wanted a job at the store. Landers said he could have a go at it. Working the floor. Have you met the guy?”

  “Yes, I’ve known him for a while.”

  “It didn’t work out. I had to tell Landers. At first, he didn’t want to hear it. But when we caught Fred looking in the ladies’ changing room, that was it. Amscray.”

  “He was peeping?”

  “Yeah, we didn’t do anything but fire him. I’m not even sure Landers said anything to him. I wanted to belt the guy, but he was such a wuss, I didn’t. Peepers are like that. Real quiet. Often kind of goofy. They’re pretty harmless. Butyuck, what’s the matter with them? Made me wonder about the wife, that Darla. Wasn’t she giving him any?” “Hard to tell.”

  “I can say this stuff to you, can’t I?” Leo leaned forward, watching her face. “I mean, I’m talking to you like you’re a cop, not a lady. Is that okay?”

  “It’s fine. This is very helpful.”

  “So who gets all his estate? The brother?”

  “I’d assume so.”

  “No will?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So in Wisconsin that means it’ll all go to the closest of kin. Since he has no children, it’ll go to his brother.” Leo shook his head. “That surprises me. I just don’t think Landers would have liked that.”

  RED WOKE UP. The phone was drilling a hole in his head. He thought of throwing it at the TV that was droning away in the corner. Stop both of them from making all the fucking noise. He struggled up out of the couch and stood in the middle of the room, feeling it rock around him like a giant ship. He grabbed the phone and grunted into it, “What?” “This is Hawk.” “Yeah. I figured.” “We got a problem.” ‘What’s new?”

  “I just heard from my police sources that the little girl saw you.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Yeah, not good.”

  “Why’d it take so long to find this out?”

  “The mother was keeping it a secret But guess she felt like the cops had dropped the case, so she brought it up. It could mean trouble. I want you to disappear.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been keeping my eye on her.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, then Hawk said, “You have? You know where she is?”

  “Sure. I tracked them down there one day, followed Claire from work. They’re in Wisconsin.”

  “This is bad timing. We got that big deal coming down. I don’t want you around here. I want you to leave town.”

  Red thought for a few moments. The woman on the TV, Martha Something, was showing a man how to make your own doilies out of paper napkins. God, how some people wasted their lives. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s do something about the little girl.”

  “Not a good idea. Like sticking your hand in a hornet’s nest.”

  “Hornets don’t sting me. I’m magic.”

  11

  The woman Claire saw in the mirror had dark blue eyes, black hair pulled back in a clip, no makeup. She didn’t like this image of herself particularly. Too severe, too somber. Claire wiped her hand across the mirror as if to change what she was seeing in the glass. Other than growing her hair out, Claire had done nothing to change or improve her looks in years. She had always been serious, but now she looked worse than that—she looked set in her ways, as if she wouldn’t even try anything n
ew.

  Wearing her hair pulled back probably didn’t help. When she was a kid, she saw movies where the secretary would transform herself by taking off her glasses and letting down her hair and—voilà!—she was the hottest number around. Claire reached back and took the clip out of her hair. She smiled. It did help. Her hair was getting long; it probably needed a trim. It hung down below her shoulders.

  What about lipstick? This wasn’t a date or anything, but she was going out in public. Her mother wouldn’t have been caught dead in public without lipstick. Her mother had always worn a deep red, even to go to the grocery store. Claire pulled a tube out of her top drawer and put on a light film of red, a rosier red than her mother’s color, then blotted it. Nice. Color, she needed color, otherwise she could look sallow.

  Because of Leo Stromboli’s slight criticism of her clothes, she was wearing a dress. One of those flowered dresses with a hip waist. She was even wearing shoes with a slight heel; they were a dark burgundy color. She had bought them for someone’s wedding, maybe Bridget’s.

  One more glance in the mirror. Better and better. One thing was for sure—she didn’t look like a cop. Maybe people would forget she was one and talk more easily around her. It was for the same reason that she had asked Rich to drive; she didn’t want to pull up to this meeting in the squad car. Rich should be here soon. He had called her this morning and told her about a meeting of the Landowners of America. He said he was going to check it out and asked if she wanted to go with him and she had said yes immediately. She ran down the stairs to see how Meg and Sissie were doing.

  The two girls sat in front of the TV, each with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. Sissie was fourteen, and she and Meg sometimes acted like friends. Claire was glad they got along so well together. She didn’t ask Sissie to baby-sit when she was going to be out late, but since the meeting would only be a few hours, she should be fine.

  “Bed at what time?” Claire asked.

  Meg craned her head back and then turned completely around when she saw her mom. “Wow, like, you look gorgeous!”

  “What is this, like, Baywatch talk?” Claire tweaked Meg’s nose.

  “You look nice, Claire,” Sissie said. “Cool dress.”

  “I helped her pick it out at—guess where,” Meg explained proudly.

  Sissie looked puzzled.

  “Mall of America!”

  Claire and Meg had gone up to the mall for a treat in the middle of the winter, when no end to snow seemed in sight. Claire bought a few things for herself, and even though she hadn’t been in favor of the mall when they had built it, she had enjoyed the shopping trip. The air in the mall was humid and warm, thanks to all the trees they had planted. The shrieks of children zooming around on the roller coaster had filled the atrium. Meg had thrown all Claire’s pennies into the fountain and made lots of wishes. A good day for both of them.

  “Nine at the very latest. Even if you’re watching something on TV that’s fantastic. Sissie, I shouldn’t be home any later than ten. Is that okay?” Weird to be asking your baby-sitter if you could stay out late, but that was the way it was handled these days.

  “Yeah. My mom said it was okay.”

  CLAIRE WALKED OUT of the house as soon as she saw Rich’s pickup pull up into the driveway. She didn’t want him to come in. The only man Meg had seen her with since her husband’s death had been Bruce. Meg knew where she was going and who she was going with, but Claire wanted it to seem very casual. Which it was.

  The dress complicated climbing up into the pickup truck. Reaching up for the door frame, she suddenly felt her wrist gripped firmly. The next thing she knew, she was sitting in the cab next to Rich.

  “Hi. Thanks.”

  “Howdy,” Rich said. “You look nice.”

  “Thanks. Don’t get much chance to dress up around here.” She glanced over at him. He looked all cleaned up. He was wearing a cotton plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, and black cowboy boots. He was clean shaven and his face scrubbed. He even smelled good—a woodsy smell, dark with a hint of spice.

  He nodded and backed out of her driveway.

  Claire looked around the truck and was surprised by how neat it was. Just like the house. Nothing out of place. An old, worn copy of Twain’s Life on the Mississippi stuck out of the side pocket.

  “I haven’t read that” She pointed at the book.

  “Oh, the Twain. Yeah, I just picked that up. I read it when I was a kid and was sure that the life of the captain of a riverboat was for me. Closest I’ve come to it is living on the lake.”

  “That’s pretty close.” Claire looked out at the lake as they drove up alongside of it on 35. “You know, I’ve never been out on the lake. Funny to live so close to it and not have taken a boat out on it.”

  “Oh, I’ve got an old canoe. If you want to go canoeing sometime—”

  “Is that safe out there with all the motorboats and sailboats and barges?”

  “I stick close to the shoreline. I watch out for the other boats, because I know they’re not going to be looking for me.”

  “That’d be fun.”

  They were silent in the car until Maiden Rock. As they drove through the town, Claire tried to think of something to say. She felt uncomfortable not talking; she didn’t know Rich well enough to be silent with him with ease. “Where’d you find it?”

  “What? The canoe?”

  “No.” She laughed. “The book.”

  “In one of the antique shops.”

  “You go into the antique shops?”

  “Why is that surprising? I find a lot of great old stuff there.

  Old tools, saw blades. I’ve bought a lot of my furniture there. After I fixed up all the pieces that were worth saving of my uncle’s.”

  “Most men don’t like them. My husband wouldn’t set foot in an antique store.”

  “So you did have a husband? What happened to him?”

  Claire said what she always said to that question. “He died.”

  Rich reacted the way most people did. They shut up. They figured if she wanted to tell them more, she would. She never said anything more.

  AFTER HE HAD asked about her husband, silence hung in the cab of the truck for a few moments. Rich watched the familiar scenery slide by—glistening lake, points of land sticking out into it, bluffs rolling up near to the road and then pulling back. He loved this place.

  He heard Claire clear her throat. “So tell me about this Landowners group. How did they get started? What’s their purpose? Are they peculiar to Wisconsin?”

  “No, they are not only indigenous to Wisconsin. They’re sprouting up all over the States. I’ve been reading up on them. I think they’re part of this new right-wing movement we see taking over politics. People afraid of losing their freedom. They’re not even sure what they mean by that, but they’re going to hang on to it, goddamn it, no matter what it takes. After their own personal freedoms, their property means the most to many of them. After all, land was what brought their ancestors to America. The Landowners of America group formed about five years ago in reaction to some land-use ordinances that were being passed along the St. Croix River to preserve the riverbank. A lot of farmers and old-timers are in the group.” He paused. She nodded at him, and he continued.

  “They see many of the new people who are moving into this area from the Twin Cities and Rochester and Madison as the problem. These rich folk come in, buy up the land at cheap prices, then lay down a bunch of laws so farmers can’t make money on their land, and then the property taxes go sky-high. Many of the old-timers can’t afford to pay those taxes, so they can’t afford to keep their land. And because of the new laws, they can’t sell it for what they think it’s worth. They’re plenty mad.” He needed to stop. He could feel himself getting riled up. He wanted to be levelheaded going into this meeting, and he didn’t need to bore Claire to death.

  She touched him on the shoulder, a slight touch, letting him know she was still listening. Then she asked, �
�What do you think of it all? Are you considered an old-timer?”

  “My family is from here, so I’m grandfathered in, so to speak. I believe in moderation. I think some of the new laws—the bluff ordinances, the wetland things—sometimes go too far in trying to preserve an unknown. But I believe we need the laws. I think we need to look at the land in a new way. That it is a gift we have for a while, and then we should be willing to pass it on in better shape than we got it.”