November Hunt

by Jess Lourey

  “OK,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll call.”

  I smiled for real this time. “I know.”

  Fourteen

  “Lyle’s.” the voice was gruff but not unpleasant, and I imagined I could smell motor oil and Lava soap through the phone line.

  “Hi. I’m wondering if I could bring my car in this week. There’s something wrong with the heating system.” There. I’d said it. I’d committed to having her looked at, and the rest was in the Fates’ hands.

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “Toyota Corolla.”

  “Don’t really fix imports. The dealership in Fergus is your best bet.”

  The Fates had spoken! My car must be fine. “How about an oil change?”

  “I can do that. When would you like to come in?”

  “Are you open evenings?”

  “Until six, later if I need to be.”

  “How about Wednesday at 5:30?”

  “Can’t do it. Got an engine replacement that’ll take all day. Thursday work?”

  I checked my packed calendar. When had I become so popular? Actually, judging by my other commitments this week, “dim-witted” was probably a better adjective. “Thursday works great.”

  He took my name and number. “See you at 5:30 on Thursday.”

  “Thank you!” One down. I hung up the phone and dialed the number of Tom Kicker’s ex. I heard five rings, and then her answering machine.

  Hi, thanks for calling! This is Catherine. I’m not in. Please—

  I hung up before the greeting finished. Maybe she was a serious screener who didn’t answer the phone unless she recognized the name and number. I needed to work up a story so I could leave a message. My morning chores done, I tended to my furry companions before making my way to the library.

  The nice people from Food by Design had cleaned everything before they’d left and mostly put stuff back where it belonged. I only had to realign a few tables and redistribute the library literature. I was grabbing a stack off the front desk when Mitchell’s fliers requesting temporary waitstaff fluttered to the ground. I gathered them up, wondering if I should apply. I wasn’t too proud to waitress and could sure use the money. The $49.95 from Peggy covered the database I intended to sign up for today, but I was still in the hole because of the vitamins and needed to round up another payment for the student loans.

  Walking over to the computer with flier in hand, I Googled “Deer Valley Hunt Club.” When several hits came up, I added “Millerville” to my search terms and was immediately rewarded. The web page featured a camo theme punctuated by a loop of a duck call followed by a gunshot. I turned off my sound and checked the links: News, Deer, Fowl, Shooting Range, Lodging, Dining, Staff, and Contact. After exploring all of them, I was left with the impression that the hunt club was catering toward an out-of-towner with more money than time. Basically, a person paid $10,000 annually for a membership, and that money went toward “wildlife preservation,” which I suppose was a nice way of saying replacing the animals that you shot. That fee also bought members the opportunity to use the shooting range whenever they wanted and to engage in four hunts throughout the year. The shooting range was free with membership, but the hunts cost more, dependent on tag fees, trophy and disposal costs, and other Orwellian-sounding services.

  On top of that, a member could reserve the Trophy room at the lodge, was guaranteed premium seating in the restaurant, and could have the animals they bagged “dressed,” and I don’t think they were talking about a tux. The language overall seemed aimed to sanitize the hunting experience. I’m not a big fan of guns, but I respect people who have the skill and the patience to get their hands dirty and take down their own meat. This hunt club struck me as more of a rich man’s zoo with the hunters in possession of long rifles and short skill.

  While I was on my computer, I completed a basic search on Clive Majors. Not a single hit appeared. I don’t know if I was more surprised he’d kept clean or that a person could live in this era without popping up on the Internet at least once. I read this as a sign that it was time to join the database service. Twenty minutes later, I was in. First, I searched for myself and found that I looked like a pretty decent person from a distance. Next, I dug deeper on Clive, but never uncovered a single mention of him besides a copy of the title on his car and his property.

  The same couldn’t be said of Tom Kicker, whose name was World Wide Web wallpaper. A series of articles had been written about his business, but he’d also been an active philanthropist who’d donated to many women’s and children’s organizations over the course of his life. The more I read, the more I understood the far-reaching effects of his loss.

  I figured this was as good a time as any to check in with Hallie at the hospital. I’d decided early this morning that I should tell her about Clive’s check to the library. She’d hear about it eventually given the rate of gossip dispersal in a small town. She took the news well, so well in fact that I thought she must be on mood-enhancing drugs.

  “Doesn’t it upset you?” I asked. “Clive was throwing his money around like it was on fire.”

  “Sure, it upsets me,” she said, her voice growing heated. “But it also means that I’m right. My dad’s death wasn’t an accident. It’s just like you said. Someone paid Clive to kill him.”

  “Whoa. That was just one possible theory. We don’t know anything for certain right now. There’s a lot of different ways Clive could have come into money. You yourself said he was paid well.”

  “Well enough to live decently in a small town, not to donate thousands of dollars to a library. And most of what he made went straight into a liquor bottle. You don’t need to be a detective to know that. So where else could he have gotten the money?”

  I still wasn’t ready to rat out Clive’s pot business. Forget that it labeled me a trespasser. I had a hunch it wasn’t relevant, and I wasn’t going to turn him in without certainty. “Maybe he’s been saving his whole life. Maybe he feels guilty about accidentally shooting your dad and it’s making him behave irrationally with his savings.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  I pursed my lips, refereeing my options. In the end, there was only one honest answer. “No, I don’t.”

  Fifteen

  “Get in,” I ordered Peggy. She was standing next to my car, letting all my valuable warmth escape as she gaped at my fish house heater in the back seat. Her eyes appeared particularly wide-set this morning, and her green parka and hunched posture made her look downright amphibious. I was in a crabby mood anyhow because I’d woken up remembering I needed to figure out some way to get her mojo back while simultaneously visiting a nursing home.

  “Is it safe?”

  “It’s not a bomb.”

  She looked hesitant. “I don’t know.”

  I let up on the clutch and pushed on the gas a little so the car crept forward. “If you have better things to do, I’m fine leaving you here,” I called out.

  She ran forward as quickly as her short legs could carry her and threw herself in the front seat, her flowery perfume thick enough to slice. She reached immediately for the seat belt. “Does this thing have air bags?”

  “More like air pockets. It’s a ten-year-old car. Safety wasn’t a priority then. Anyhow, if we need to stop quickly, your main concern is going to be that heater in the back seat flying forward and beaning you on the back of your head. The seat belt it’s wearing is more for decoration.”

  She squished her eyes tightly shut. “I think I feel my vertigo coming on. Let me know when we’re there. Where are we going, anyhow?”

  “Fergus Falls.”

  “What a beautiful name! Is it an inspirational town?”

  Sunny, a lifelong resident of the area before heading to Alaska and who’d earned more than her share of speeding tickets before going, claimed that Fergus had three things to offer the world: geese, police, and cheese. I would argue that its library and historic downtown offset that somewhat, b
ut she wasn’t far off. “Lots. Piles of inspiration.”

  “Great,” she said. Without opening her eyes, she reached into her purse and pulled out an inhaler. She took a quick puff, returned it to her purse, and came out with a Nut Goodie candy bar. I’m not even lying.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “This?” She held it up blindly. “I always carry a couple Nut Goodies in my purse.”

  I groaned a little, softly, so she couldn’t hear over the wind whipping through my cracked windows. I like Nut Goodies like you like oxygen. They’re a Minnesota original, smooth milk chocolate poured over nuts and a maple nougat center, a blob of lusciousness as big as the palm of your hand. A Nut Goodie resembled what happens after you eat food more than it resembles actual food, but what it lacked in aesthetics it made up for in a perfect harmony of sweet taste and complex texture.

  “Are you okay?”

  I glanced over at Peggy, wiping the drool off my chin. Her eyes were still closed. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You’re breathing heavy.”

  “Your imagination.” I turned on the radio, but she must have sensed my need, one junkie to another, because she handed over the Goodie.

  “Here you go. I’ve got more.”

  “I didn’t have breakfast,” I said lamely, as I tore into it. I specifically did not keep Nut Goodies in my house because they eroded my self-control.

  “I did.” She pulled out another bright red-and-green wrapped candy mound and dug in. I found a little room for her in my heart at that moment.

  “What do you think of old people?” I asked between bites.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Do you find them uplifting? Inspiring?”

  She seemed to ponder as she ate, chocolate-covered peanut bits raining down on her lap. “I’m sure some of them have led inspirational lives. Are you taking me to a nursing home?”

  “I am.” I thought as I talked. “I’m meeting a friend for coffee this morning, and he lives in a home. I thought you could interview some of the residents while I hang out with him.”

  Her eyes flew open. “What? Do you have any idea how many illnesses exist in a nursing home?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No more than in a library. But if you don’t want to go in, you can stay in the car. I’ll leave the heater on.”

  She glanced worriedly into the back seat and clutched her purse tighter but didn’t say anything.

  We stopped at a gas station so I could pick up the cream-filled Long Johns I’d promised Julius. I wasn’t sure about his preferred topping, so I chose chocolate, maple cream, and sprinkles. All three looked like lovely, corn-syrup laden gut torpedoes. I wondered idly who I could convince to smuggle me in Nut Goodies if I was ever institutionalized.

  The streets of Fergus Falls were icy, but the traffic was light. I drove down Lincoln Avenue because I loved the old brick buildings with shops on the bottom floor and apartments above. The Kaddatz Gallery was closed, but I’d read in my own newspaper that they were having a sculpture exhibit next week. I’d have to check it out. As much as I liked to think of myself as cosmopolitan, the truth was that I geeked out over all sorts of statues. Don’t tell Chief Wenonga. I turned right at Victor Lundeen’s print shop and bookstore, pointing it out to Peggy as a possible spot for a future signing, and continued the last mile to the nursing home. We made it there in record time, and Peggy reluctantly agreed to go in with me as long as she didn’t have to touch anyone. I told her I thought that was an awesome life rule when encountering any strangers.

  Unfortunately, according to the door, visitors weren’t welcome until 8:00 a.m. Probably a staffing issue. “OK, here’s the plan,” I said, as we shivered outside the front entrance. “We walk in like we know what we’re doing. Don’t stop at the front desk, don’t look guilty, and don’t make eye contact. You just walk confidently beside me and let me do all the talking. Got it?”

  She giggled, the first time I’d heard laughter from her, and it was even more melodic than her voice. “This is exciting.”

  “Yeah, we’re a regular James Gang, busting into the Fergus Falls Nursing Home and Assisted Living Facility. You with me?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” She saluted, and we walked in like we owned the place.

  Immediately to the left of the door were residents watching TV in a bland alcove off the lobby. The walls were cream-colored and hung with colorful abstract paintings, the kind where you wondered if the artist laughed whenever she found out someone paid money for them. The front desk was not personned at the moment. Four doors led off the lobby, not counting the one we’d walked through. Two were clearly marked restrooms, one led off the front desk, and the other was a set of double-doors that guarded a long hall. The clink and chatter of a cafeteria breakfast hour tumbled out of the crack underneath that door, and the air was distinctly scented with an odor of eggs, coffee, analgesic heat rub, and if I wasn’t mistaken, dusty, hand-crocheted afghans.

  My brain working with jet speed, I strode over to the brightest-eyed oldster parked in front of the TV, a dapperly dressed gentleman barely this side of 100. “Can you tell me which room Julius Mertz is in?”

  He didn’t respond. I tried it again, louder. Still no response. “He only talks during commercials,” whispered the white-haired woman to his left. “If you show me what’s in that bag, I’ll tell you what room Julius is in.”

  It ended up costing me two Long Johns, but I got the room number. “You wait here for me, Peggy. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  She glanced worriedly toward the front desk. “What if the receptionist comes back?”

  “Play old.” I slipped back into my confident posture and strode through the door to the main part of the home like a gunfighter at high noon. I caught the back end of a uniformed nurse slipping into the cafeteria, but otherwise, the hallway was clear. Julius’ room was the fifth on my right. I knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Inside, the room was small, maybe 10 feet by 15, and it consisted of a bed, a TV mounted on the wall, a dresser, a bedside table, two chairs, and a huge window whose ledge was stuffed with glorious green plants. I felt immediately comfortable and approached the wizened man sitting in the chair by the window. “Hi, Mr. Mertz? I’m Mira.”

  He stood, even though it took him great effort. He was stooped, his thin white hair was combed back in an old-fashioned wave held in place with pomade, and his brown eyes were rheumy. His smile was brighter than the light shining in, even though I’d bet dollars to donuts he was sporting dentures. Speaking of, “I hope you like sprinkles on your Long John. I had a wider selection when I first walked in, but it’s a tough crowd in the lobby.”

  He chuckled his dry, staccato laugh. “I should have warned you. We don’t get much sugar in here. We’re liable to jump any good-looking donut that drops by.”

  “Well thank you,” I said, making him laugh again. “Can we sit? I think it’d be more comfortable.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee first? I have some instant decaf.”

  “No, thank you. I’m good.” I really wanted him to sit before he toppled over, but he was too much of a gentleman to go down before I did. I plopped myself into the hard-backed plastic chair so he could have the recliner. “Thank you so much for seeing me.”

  “Not at all. I’m happy to have visitors. Thank you for the donut.”

  “You could eat it right now,” I said, sensing that he wouldn’t in front of me. When he politely declined, assuring me he’d enjoy it later for a snack, I jumped right in. “How well did you know Tom Kicker?”

  An emotion passed behind his watery eyes. “Less and less, the past few years. He’d become a busy man. When we first met, he was my neighbor. His parents lived right next door.”

  “You lived in Battle Lake?”

  “I surely did. Right over by the Brown Bat. You know where that is?”

  I did. The gorgeous, cedar-shake home on the shores of West Battle Lake was a throwback to the 1930s wh
en wealthy industrialists from out East vacationed in the area during the summer. I had no idea how it’d earned its nickname, other than its color. “I’ve driven past it.”

  “Beautiful home, that. My house was not so nice.” He chuckle-rasped again. “It had four walls and a roof, however, and I had a decent business going as a fishing and hunting guide. Tom sometimes worked for me, cleaning equipment, taking out the occasional fishing group when I had another obligation, odd job tasks like that.”

  “Do you mind me asking if you two got along okay?”

  That emotion again. “You’re writing an article, you say?”

  He was sharp, his aging body be damned. And I liked him too much to lie to his face, even though I doubted I could have gotten away with it had I tried. “I said I work for the newspaper, but I’m actually asking about Tom because his daughter Hallie thinks his death might not have been an accident.”

  The coughing started again, and it was ten seconds before I realized it was real distress. I rushed to get him some water from the yellow plastic pitcher at his bedside and helped him to drink. His coughing stopped, though his hands were shaky.

  “I’m sorry. I could have worded that better.”

  He held up his hand, and the skin looked as dry and fine as paper. “I’ll be fine. This old heart and lungs just can’t take it like they used to. I’ll tell you this, and I want you to listen. Tommy Kicker was as true blue as they come, and if he’s been murdered, that’s a crime for not only his family but his community.”

  “So you weren’t mad that he stole the idea for Battle Sacks from you?” I lowered my eyes apologetically. “Hallie told me that was the rumor.”

  His shoulders relaxed, and he looked out the window, a sad smile replacing the tightness in his lips. “Just like any rumor, that’s about 10 percent truth and 90 percent bull waste, excuse my language.”

  “Battle Sacks weren’t your idea?”

  “I suppose, since I’d mentioned to Tom about thirty years ago that I’d sure like to own a sturdy bag with the right-size pockets to fit all my gear in. I also told him I’d like my outgoing letters to walk themselves to my mailbox, and do you suppose he’d have been stealing from me if he’d thought up email?”