by Jess Lourey
The marigolds I had recently planted were the tallest growths in the garden. I could smell their acridness even with their orange and yellow heads closed to the bright moon. I traditionally planted a thick square of marigolds and catnip first thing around all my vegetable gardens. With their natural insecticide properties, they were soldiers guarding the hairy innocence of my zucchini, carrot, bean, pea, and corn sprouts.
This year I had also planted dill, for two reasons. First, Johnny had told me it would repel aphids as well as the spider mites attracted by my marigolds and would draw the tomato worms away from my heirloom Red Brandywines. Second, although I had a pretty green thumb, I could not grow cucumbers to save my soul. Try as I might in many different soils with many different varieties, from Tendergreen Burpless to White Spineless, I couldn’t get the seedlings to grow much past germination. I figured the dill would serve as an enticement, like, “If you grow, I’ll let you be a pickle.” Pickling was the Valhalla of the vegetable world.
It was my mom who had turned me on to gardening. Every summer, she tilled up a huge section of open land between the outbuildings on the hobby farm and planted every vegetable that would grow in west central Minnesota—and some, like garlic and sweet potatoes, that wouldn’t. She was a gifted and optimistic gardener, and although I hated planting and weeding when I was younger, I loved to watch her face when she worked. All the lines left her forehead and around her mouth, and although she never looked happy, she looked peaceful, like she was in the right place at the right time. I only saw her look like that when she was in her garden.
I stepped through the opening I had left in my bug-fighting border and mucked over to the far side of the garden. The black dirt was speckled with dew and still warm from the sun rays of the day before. My toes squished through the top layer of light dew-mud and into the looser earth below. I kneeled at my row of carrots, one knee on each side. The shaggy sprouts were thick; I didn’t have enough patience to plant the microscopic seeds carefully or the heart to thin them after they sprouted, so I treated carrots as an ornamental crop.
The moon was full enough for me to distinguish carrot from weed, and I quickly got my patter down, popping the thistle and leafy spurge easily from the moist ground. As I worked, my knees sank into the dirt and my mind focused. Jason was back in town, and he had brought with him Samantha Krupps, a bleached blonde with a Jersey accent who was likely related to the woman who “lost” the necklace in Whiskey Lake decades ago.
I was sure there was more to the original Krupps story than simply a lost necklace, and overhearing Jason in the master bedroom at Shangri-La had confirmed my hunch that there was something hidden in that room. Maybe it was the missing necklace, along with the rest of the jewels that had gone missing that summer eighty and some odd years ago.
I was sure if I got in the bedroom I could find the jewels. This feeling was probably tied to my childhood as a stasher. Back then, hiding my valuables had given me a feeling of control over my life. I hid flattened money in the cracks in my window sash, sea glass in the knothole in my closet, and my diary under my bedsprings. My favorite hoard was a cache of glittering rhinestones that I had started collecting at garage sales when I was six. I would save up my allowance to scour the old jewelry piled on the front card table of every rummage sale. After many years, I had acquired quite a collection, and it was still hidden in the floorboards of my old bedroom. I wanted something to return home to, something that consistently made me happy, and I wondered if Mrs. Krupps had had the same urge all those years ago.
I just didn’t know how the Star Tribune article tied into the return of Jason and appearance of Samantha Krupps. Was it coincidence that the newspaper article ran at the same general time they’d arrived looking for lost jewels, or was there a bigger plan unfolding here, one beyond my vision?
And what would Jason and Samantha have to gain by outfitting and planting a fake dead body in Whiskey Lake? If they hoped to scare off people looking for the contest’s necklace early, their time would have been better spent searching for the real necklace themselves, since they obviously knew about the real diamond long before the rest of the world. This made me wonder whether the Gibsons were in on all this. Kellie said she had tipped the newspaper to the whole necklace story. Clearly, I would have to do some investigative reporting at the Romanov show at Shangri-La that evening, despite my misgivings about crowds and theater types. And I needed to sneak into the master bedroom to find out what was going on.
I was weeding the peas by now. The vines were so extensive I had to flip them side to side like long green hair over dirt shoulders to reach the weeds underneath. I would have kept weeding, ignoring the pinks of the rising sun, if the melancholy cry of a loon on the lake hadn’t pulled me out of my thoughts. I sat back on my heels and looked for the bird, but the shadows played tricks on my eyes. I brushed off my knees and went inside.
After a long, refreshing shower, I slapped on some ChapStick, made a yogurt, frozen berry, and banana smoothie, and headed to town to get the Recall and open up the library.
My article was on the front page. I had titled it “Find One Diamond Today” because it sort of rhymed in the middle, and I hoped the “Today” made it sound fresh:
A day in paradise could end up being a week in Shangri-La for the lucky finder of the fake diamond planted in Whiskey Lake. The Star Tribune, tipped off to a local legend, has placed a weighted box containing a paste diamond into Whiskey Lake, south of town on Highway 78. People may begin diving for it today, and whoever finds it first will receive $5,000 and a paid week at Shangri-La, the Whiskey Lake–based resort owned by Kellie and Bing Gibson.
“[The contest] was actually my idea,” Kellie Gibson said modestly. “I have a friend at the newspaper, and she passed the idea on to the woman who wrote the article.”
Gibson’s idea had such appeal because of the deep history of the area. According to Shirly Tolverson, local historian, Randolph Addams built Shangri-La in the 1920s to be his summer home. When it was complete, he had a beautiful main lodge (what Addams called his “little cabin”) and four cabins for the help, all nestled on the six-acre peninsula jutting into Whiskey Lake. During the summer of 1929, a Ms. Krupps from New York was a guest at the Addamses’ lodge. While swimming, she lost her necklace, an enormous dewdrop diamond hung on a gold chain.
According to Tolverson, who was working at Shangri-La the summer the necklace disappeared, “I saw her go into the water with a diamond the size of a caramel around her neck. I saw her walk out of the water without it.” The guests and staff, including Tolverson, searched frantically. The diamond was never found, and local legend has it that it is still in the lake, waiting to be discovered.
The Star Tribune contest, designed to bring attention to Battle Lake’s beautiful topography and tourist appeal, is about finding a fake diamond, but who knows? Maybe some lucky diver will find the real thing.
I folded the paper, not entirely happy with my article because I knew there was some big picture I was missing. All I could do now, though, was wait for the morning crowd to arrive for Monday Madness. That’s what I called the children’s reading hour I hosted every Monday morning at ten. I thought it was a funny name, what with all the kids screaming and picking and scratching at themselves as I tried to imitate perkiness while reading The Paper Bag Princess.
This was my one shot to infiltrate their young minds, though, and I enjoyed it. The kids liked books for all the right reasons, and they were mostly cute, even if they had the attention span of hair on fire. The only thing I dreaded about Monday Madness was dealing with Leylanda Wilson, who brought her seven-year-old daughter, Peyton, to every reading. Peyton was put upon by the constant demands of the non-princess existence she was forced to live, which was cute on a little girl. Unfortunately, her mother had the same attitude. She always complained that I only chose books about independent girls (she was right) who usually defied society’s rules (right again) and that I didn’t give enough time to the
“classics” like Snow White and Cinderella. This Monday, she walked in dressed in an immaculate and stiff dress suit, carrying her purse as if she had her spare heart in it, Peyton dragging behind her.
“Peyton, we will stay for one half of an hour if Ms. James is reading good stories. If not, I will read you one story of your choosing no longer than seven minutes in length, and then we will go to Meadow Farm Foods to buy some free-range chicken and delicious whole grains.”
Peyton rolled her eyes at me, and I nodded and rolled mine back. Leylanda was the most horrible kind of creature—a right-wing traditionalist who disguised herself as a granola to deflect personal criticism from her ravaging narrow-mindedness. She even wore Birkenstocks with her pressed Tommy Hilfiger jeans and polos.
“Hey, Leylanda, today I’m going to read a book about a little boy and a princess who fall in love and get married.”
Leylanda eyed me suspiciously from behind her trendy, dark-rimmed glasses. “What’s it called?”
“Prince Cinders. I think Peyton’ll like it.” I grabbed Peyton’s hand and pulled her to the front of the yammering crowd of kids before her mom could object. The story was one of my favorites, about a prince with three cheesy brothers who think they’re studs. Prince Cinders gets dumped on until his fairy godmother grants his wish to be big and hairy like his brothers. She turns him into an ape. After he turns back into himself, he and the princess fall for each other, and they live happily ever after in the castle.
I read a couple more keepers and then sent the kids back to their parents, who were scattered around the library reading paperbacks and magazines. Back at the front desk, I sorted through the books that had been returned. A lot of people were streaming through already, which was unusual for ten-thirty on a Monday. I counted heads and wondered how many were here because of the diamond necklace contest. That’s when Kennie walked in.
“Hey shug doll, what’s up?”
Kennie was dressed and shaped like the sun. She wore acid-yellow jelly shoes, yellow-striped pedal pushers, a plastic yellow belt with a brass buckle, and a yellow tank top made of some water-, flame-, and possibly bulletproof material. Her canary-colored sunglasses were perched on her head, but they weren’t bright enough to distract from her lemon-shaded earrings that looked to be taken straight out of a blind man’s tackle box. All this splendor was arranged around a camel toe the size of Egypt. And just like that, I had an idea.
“Not much, Kennie. Say, you still doing that Minnesota Nice business?”
She scrabbled over to me like I was the last krumkake at a church bake sale. “Why, yes I am, honey! In fact, I’m here now to drop off some flyers. Do y’all know someone who needs the hard truth?”
I smiled so broadly that the corners of my mouth got my eyes wet. “Sort of. It’s more about justice than honesty. You free tonight?”
“Hmm. Let me see.” From her yellow plastic tote bag, she pulled out a cardboard folder with a picture of two adorable kittens on the front, one sleeping on a branch and the other one clinging to the wood by one slipping claw. Underneath the photo were the words “Only the Strong Survive.”
“Y’all are in luck, because Monday nights are pretty open for me. What did you have in mind?” Kennie leaned forward on the counter, squishing her boobs together over a Grand Canyon of cleavage. I caught a solid waft of her signature scent: yeasty gardenias.
I considered lying, but I didn’t want to deprive her of the information she’d need to see this thing through. So I half-lied. “There’s this guy in town, Jason Blunt. He used to be my boyfriend, long, long time ago, and I was really into him. In fact, I think he might have been The One.”
Kennie hid her doubt with the professionalism of a free-clinic gynecologist. “Go on.”
“Well, I caught him cheating on me. Like I said, he’s back in town, and I—”
“And y’all want me to make his life hell tonight?”
“Yep, uh-huh. I know it’s a little bit outside the purview of your Minnesota Nice business, but I thought you could maybe turn on the Kennie charm and show him a good time.”
“And then dump him cold, like he dumped you?”
“Sure.” I was actually thinking a night fending off Kennie’s advances would be its own dose of strap oil, but whatever she needed to play this scene was fine by me. She’d buy me some time to snoop, and he’d have an evening of tuna-scented hell. “He’s got a girlfriend with him, so you’ll need to sidestep her.”
Kennie nodded sagely, making her gargantuan earrings jingle. “Where can I find him?”
So this is what it felt like to be completely satisfied. Meow. “He’s staying at Shangri-La, and I’m pretty sure he’ll be at the Romanov Traveling Theater performance tonight.”
“He won’t know what hit him, honey.”
I was banking on it.
On the way home from my long day at the library, I stopped at the Turtle Stew for some broasted chicken and jo-jos to go. The Stew was my favorite restaurant in town, because they made a mean tater-tot hotdish and had authentic Naugahyde booths. It was a great place to people-watch, too, if one was Sinclair Lewis.
When I was ordering my food, it occurred to me that I missed my friend Gina. I ordered double of everything and took it to her house.
I’d met Gina through Sunny over a decade earlier, at the annual Chief Wenonga Days street dance. Gina and Sunny had gone to high school together in Battle Lake and had both gone on to work at the Otter Tail County nursing home, one of the few jobs besides waitressing that a local girl without a college education could get by on. The two of them were tied together due to a shared history, but I loved Gina for her simple, honest company.
She was in her late twenties, built like a blonde fire hydrant, and married to her grade-school sweetheart, Leif Hokum. When I’d met him, I’d joked that it would be nice if all potential mates came clearly labeled like that. When I realized the last name of my job-free boyfriend at the time was Kidd, I wondered if maybe they do all come plainly labeled, and no woman had ever picked up on it. Maybe it was God’s way of apologizing for poor placement of the clitoris.
Gina was wearing her scrubs when I got to her one-story house in town. She had worked at the nursing home for longer than I had known her. She started as a dietary aide in high school and became a certified nursing assistant shortly after that. Last summer she had graduated from Fergus Falls Community College’s nursing program with an RN degree.
She now worked four twelve-hour shifts a week, with alternating weekends. She was so tired all the time that I hardly ever saw her. She seemed exhausted but grateful when she opened her door to me.
“Hey, chickie. Where’s Leif?”
She dug into the bag of broasted chicken. “Probably fishing.”
Gina’s husband was the typical Otter Tail County man. He was tall, dirty blonde, and sporting a burgeoning beer belly. When he wasn’t hunting with his bow and arrow, gun, or crossbow, he was ice fishing, river fishing, lake fishing, or spear fishing. All this self-reliance would be awesome if a person found himself suddenly transplanted to Little House on the Prairie–era Minnesota, but it sure took a bite out of relationships.
“Don’t you get sick of him being gone all the time?”
She shrugged and leaned back on the couch, rearranging the walleye-shaped pillows so she could get comfortable. “He’s there when I need him. Besides, we just had a great talk the other night where we both agreed we need to communicate and have more fun together.”
“What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Drink more.” She ripped a chunk of breast meat off the bone. “Shit, this was the longest day at work ever! We had two clients sneak out, four new clients move in, and a surprise visit from the state. I feel like all I do is go to work, come home, eat, watch some TV, and go to bed. And they pay me just enough to get up the next day and do it all over again. You gonna eat all those jo-jos?”
I passed her the greasy wax bag and took a pull on my Diet Dr. Pepper. “You
do look tired.”
“No shit. That’s why nobody around here is winning any think-offs. By the end of the day, all I want to do is watch the Mary-Kate and Ashley show and go to bed.” Her eyes focused on me, and her voice changed from complaining to curious. “Say, I hear Jason Blunt is staying at Shangri-La.”
I knew Gina would get to the heart of my problems pretty quickly. She always did. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Linda Gundersen, friends with Jason’s mom, Harriet, stopped to visit her Aunt Flo. Linda said Harriet Blunt was in a snit because Jason’s girlfriend was too good to stay at their doublewide.”
I snorted. “Shoot. Trailers were made for people like those two. Yeah, he’s in town. He visited me in my bedroom the night before last. Thought I was Sunny.”
Gina nodded knowingly. “Horn call.”
“Yup. So I don’t know how good of a girlfriend this chick is if he’s already sleeping around.”
“That don’t mean anything with Blunt. He could be married to Tyra Banks and he’d still stick his bad boy in a tree if he thought he wouldn’t get caught.”
I shuddered at the reminder of his aggression. I filled her in on my interview with Shirly and the questions it raised and my subsequent diving expedition. I didn’t mention overhearing Jason talk about the jewels he was after, because I didn’t want any rumors starting before I found out more. I told her my plan for checking out the master bedroom at Shangri-La tonight.
This made me think of Kennie in her full splendor, making a little love magic for Jason.
“What’re you smiling at?” Gina smiled back, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. She had a circle of grease around her mouth that she swiped at with a napkin.
“Nothing. I gotta go, anyhow. The Shangri-La show starts in a little bit.” I waved my hand at the leftover chicken. “Give Leif the rest of the food. It’d be good for him to see that you can buy meat, too.”